


Making Home

by hoc_voluerunt



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Asexual Character, Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality, Canon Asexual Character, Canon-Typical The Beholding Content (The Magnus Archives), Canon-Typical The Lonely Content (The Magnus Archives), Developing Relationship, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Haircuts, House Cleaning, Hurt/Comfort, Intimacy, Isolation, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Needles, No Apocalypse, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pining, Relationship Discussions, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Slow Burn, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Transitioning, discussions about sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:35:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 79,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27664805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoc_voluerunt/pseuds/hoc_voluerunt
Summary: After the events in the Panopticon, Jon and Martin rush to leave London. But making their home in an idyllic safe house isn't that easy: between the layer of dust, and Forsaken still clinging to Martin's heels, it could be some time before they reach an understanding.A torturously intimate look at how Jon and Martin come together, one long, strange, honest day at a time.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 282
Kudos: 237
Collections: TMA Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Do you ever lose your job in a pandemic and find yourself in one of the world’s longest and strictest lockdowns and suddenly face the true length of days and days with nothing to do, but at least you’ve got Netflix, but what if… you didn’t… but also you were with the love of your life in a safehouse in rural Scotland...
> 
> My entry for the TMA Big Bang 2020!! I totally thought it would be 20k max when I started! I was wrong!!!
> 
> Many many many thanks to Cai (@bisexualoftheblade), Jackal (@trailofsicklyiodine), Lys (@lymazhu), and Polly (@RuthlessNancy) for all their support and good advice; the whole mod team; and the wonderful wonderful artists whose work you're about to enjoy: Lucas (@d0ntblink182), Lux (@spellboundcities), and Moss (@marimocrab); and special shoutout to Sky (@lesbianbirds) who had to bail because my word count got so out of hand! This was my first ever BB despite being in fandom for years, and it was a truly wonderful experience. Much love to all involved! <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title card by the buckwild Cai (@bisexualoftheblade), and art ([also posted here](https://d0ntblink182.tumblr.com/post/636259725645889536/heres-my-drawing-for-chapter-1-of-cuddlytogas)) by Lucas (@d0ntblink182)! <3

When the fog clears at last, it is with a rush of sensation: the smell of old paper, a ringing in the ears, and a tingling in the fingertips. Jon’s hand, clasped tightly in Martin’s, tugs sharply at the final step, and Martin feels it in his chest as he stumbles to catch up, gaining his footing in the old document storage room. The blanket is in disarray on the cot, the file boxes and manila folders are still stacked haphazardly on the wonky metal shelves, and the bit of wall that Tim had burst through more than two years earlier remains visible, the plaster going grey with neglect, but not enough to match the rest of the walls.

On his second breath, Martin catches the foul tang of blood. He frowns, and looks to Jon for an answer.

“A lot happened after you went into the tunnels,” Jon says in a low voice, his eyes locked on Martin’s face. There is an eerie, almost fluorescent glow to his gaze, with a wide ring of green around his dark irises that lies somewhere between forest light and a cartoon stick of uranium, at once peaceful and sickly. “Are you ready?”

Martin had thought that he was going to die; he had thought he might have won; he had been condemned to hell, and saved again. He no longer has the energy for hesitation.

Martin nods.

There is… _something_ smeared on the outside of the little window at the top of the door. Jon peers through it for a long moment, his hand tightening briefly on Martin’s helping him push down the urge to retch, before Jon deems the situation safe and eases the door open with his left hand, letting in that iron smell of blood.

In the archives proper, Martin can make out another odour in the stench, like burnt sugar or fresh plastic packaging. They creep through the rows of shelves and scattered papers, Martin glancing down every aisle as the pervasive sense of voyeurism swells against his back, invasive and paranoid. It feels like the Eye ripping him back from Peter’s hooks without bothering to tend to the wounds. It feels a bit like home.

Down an all too familiar aisle, Martin spots the trapdoor to the tunnels, torn open and splintered into fragments amidst a mess of fallen boxes and papers all splattered with a dark liquid. He freezes at the sight, and Jon stops with him, glancing at his wide-eyed expression before following his gaze to the mess between the shelves. He pulls himself closer to Martin’s side, grasping the faded wool of his jumper sleeve with both hands.

“Trevor and Julia,” Jon explains in a whisper, and swallows. “And — the… the thing that killed Sasha…”

Martin squeezes his eyes shut as horror bubbles up from his stomach; it feels like aeons ago that he let Peter fade him out while that creature stared them down. Of course, Jon notices his reaction.

 _“You_ released her?” Jon asks, and Martin can’t tell if it’s reason, instinct, or the Eye which makes him correct himself. “No — Peter,” he concludes, in a steadier tone, and Martin opens his eyes and nods silently. Jon’s hand goes back to Martin’s, and they keep edging forward.

As they pass the final row of shelves and the muffling closeness of the stacks recedes, Martin hears noises from the rest of the Institute: distant sirens, shouting, alarms. Melanie’s old desk — Sasha’s before her — is overturned, pens and printer paper and a bulky old PC smashed and scattered across the floor, while the door to Jon’s office is hanging open the wrong way, torn almost entirely off its hinges, the metal knob dented and the frame splintered.

“Is everyone okay?” Martin whispers over the sounds of terror coming from above.

“I don’t know,” Jon returns just as quietly. “But I doubt it.”

There is a slight tremor to his voice, and he swallows again as they keep inching forward, trying to keep their footsteps light, Jon all but plastered to Martin’s side. They each glance to the side as they pass the doors to the kitchenette and Jon’s office, one innocuous, the other gaping and foreboding. Martin is glad for Jon’s hands, urging him to move on, and they approach the outer door of the archive with hesitation.

Then Martin hears a click and a step behind them, and he has just enough time to feel his heart rate spike before a voice barks —

_“Don’t move.”_

Martin’s breath is released from his lungs in one burst, and he turns on his heel, gathering Jon up in his free arm as he goes.

“Jesus _Christ,_ Basira,” Martin squeaks. “Don’t _do_ that!”

“Basira,” Jon sighs in obvious relief, disentangling himself from Martin to step towards her. “Are you all right? They didn’t get to you?”

“No,” she says sharply, gun still pointed at them, sweaty and streaked with the familiar grime of the tunnel, her hijab off-centre and scrunched up around her collar. “Daisy —”

She doesn’t seem able to finish the sentence; after a moment, Jon seems to understand. He closes his eyes and bows his head for the length of one, heavy breath.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, low and solemn. “I— is she…?”

“Gone,” Basira answers. The strain in her voice is becoming prominent. “After the hunters.” She adjusts her grip on her gun but does not lower it as she jerks her chin at Martin. “You found him, then?”

“Just in time.” Both of Jon’s hands return to Martin’s, and he thinks vaguely that he could get very used to this form of protection.

Basira’s dark eyes scrutinise Jon for a long moment, before she turns her sharp gaze on Martin, piercing him in place. She makes no attempt to gentle her suspicion.

“Still you, then?”

Martin nods. “Yeah,” he says, voice hushed without his permission. “Just in time.”

“Not changed out your eyes for someone else’s?” she snaps. “Not run off to join the Lukas clan for good?”

“Peter’s dead,” Jon says before Martin can try to answer. He feels a jolt in his chest, incomprehensible to his mind, and looks down at Jon, halfway between horror and wonder. Basira’s gun twitches in her hands as she latches on to whatever expression he’s wearing.

“What’s that face?” she snaps. “Sad to see him go?”

“What? _No!”_ Martin protests. “I’m — …”

But he doesn’t really know how that sentence is supposed to end. His breath goes shaky; Basira still has her pistol pointed at him, and he never understood just how scary the wrong end of a gun could be until now.

“Basira,” says Jon, low and exhausted — “please.”

Martin holds his breath, silently begging Basira not to shoot them. At least, if she does, he will get to die amidst the warmth of Jon’s hands on his, rather than the fog of that interminable beach.

With one stiff movement, Basira lowers her gun.

“You two need to get out of here,” she says in a burst, stepping forward and resting one hand on Jon’s shoulder. “The police will be here soon, they’ll be looking for a culprit. Maybe they find the centre of the tunnels, maybe they run into the hunters or the Sasha thing — maybe they don’t. But Martin’s found a body here once before, and you’ve already been a suspect in a homicide — you shouldn’t hang around for it.”

“Not to mention…” Jon starts, and Basira nods.

“Not to mention the monsters still out there.”

There is a lull where they all breathe, and it dawns on Martin just how wrong things must have gone in his absence. He’s never going back in those bloody tunnels.

It’s Jon who breaks the silence.

“Daisy once said…” he starts, eyes wary on Basira’s stony expression. “Sh-she told me about a cabin.”

The only movement is Basira’s eyebrows quirking upwards.

“Up north?” she says, and Jon nods.

“I remember the address.”

“Good.” Basira steps back, and sets about decocking her pistol and tucking it in the back of her trousers, making for Jon’s office. “Find an ATM nearby, take out as much money as you can. Pay for everything in cash, and don’t ever give your real names. No phones, no laptops, no electronics, nothing traceable. Get a burner if you can — I’ve already got one for emergencies. Daisy and I used it to —”

She doesn’t finish the sentence, just scribbles out a number on a blank sheet of paper, folds it, and holds it out to Jon. When he doesn’t move — eyes wide and mouth hanging slightly open — Martin reaches out and gingerly takes the paper from her hands. She meets his eye as she does, and Martin feels a little more understood.

“Go home and pack some things if you can, but _quickly,”_ Basira continues as Martin pockets the paper. “Don’t be seen there any later than this evening. Get out of London as fast as you can, but don’t use your oyster cards, or a taxi, nothing that can be traced or questioned.”

“The train?” Jon asks, finally catching up to the conversation.

“Unless you’re planning on stealing a car. Just — don’t book online.”

Martin stares at them both. “Wait — how far north are we going?”

“Very,” they both answer in unison. Basira takes a tight breath.

“Phones out,” she demands. They both comply, taking their mobile phones from their pockets. “Drop them,” Basira orders, and with a glance, the men silently obey, placing their phones at Basira’s feet. As soon as they’ve stood back, she stamps on each screen with the heel of her boot, shattering the glass and crunching the electronic innards. Martin winces.

“Jon, you’ve got some things here,” she goes on, unfazed, as she kicks the ruined phones aside into Jon’s office. “Go and pack a bag. I’ll check the exits.”

Jon’s “things”, it turns out, are two file boxes in the corner of the break room half-full of clothes, with a few books and tape recorders buried amongst the shirts and pants. Jon extracts a backpack from the bottom of one box, and starts stuffing clothes inside almost at random. There is a twinge of pained sympathy in Martin’s chest at the sight, the proof of how fragile Jon’s life has been these many months.

When Jon grabs one of the tape recorders, Martin feels a chill go down his spine.

“Are you sure?” he says, lowering his voice, and Jon pauses with his hand halfway to his bag.

“Yes,” he finally says, turning the recorder over in his palm. “I might need it. And besides, it — well, you know. If it turns on, we know something… _interesting,_ is about to happen.”

Martin hums, but doesn’t respond. Jon’s right, but that doesn’t stop the sight of the recorder inspiring him with a twinge of dread and fury, like carrying a piece of Elias — _Jonah Magnus_ — around with them, letting him watch. Of course, there’s probably nothing they can do about him watching them; but Martin’s trying not to think about that.

Jon stuffs the recorder in his bag and grabs another handful of socks.

“I’d recommend cutting up your credit cards,” Basira instructs as she catches up with them, handing Jon a plain, plastic bag of toiletries snatched from the archive loo. “Take away the temptation to use them. Just don’t leave them anywhere they won’t already look for you. Here, or at home, along your commute is fine — just nowhere that will give them an idea of where you’re headed.”

“So, no dropping our wallets at King’s Cross Station,” Jon drawls. Basira snorts a laugh at that.

“No,” she says, lighter than she has been since she first drew her gun on them. Martin swallows, adrift; he doesn’t get the joke.

“Will _you_ be all right?” he asks. Basira looks at him blankly, and holds his gaze for a long moment. Upstairs, the shouts have gotten quieter, and the sirens louder.

“Yeah,” she finally answers — “I can look after myself.” Her gaze falls heavily on Jon. “It’s you two I’m worried about.”

“We’ll be fine,” says Jon, a little hushed. “We have each other.”

Martin’s throat goes tight at that.

Basira just nods, then, cracking the silent tension and allowing Jon to detach from Martin long enough to close his bag and sling it over his shoulders.

“Take the fire door,” Basira says in farewell, as Martin and Jon’s hands drift back together as if magnetised. “And _try_ not to be seen by the police.”

On the Tube, Jon and Martin hold onto the same pole for balance, free hands tangled between them. There is a distant feeling of exhaustion weighing on Martin’s shoulders, as if in anticipation of the task ahead of them. It was enough of a struggle to sneak out of the Institute by the service lane and find the nearest ATM, and Martin had already been reaching for his wallet as they entered South Kensington Station when Jon touched his arm and whispered, “No cards,” as a reminder.

It is a comfort, however, to gather Jon close by the hand, his face inches from Martin’s chest but that he insists on watching their surroundings. Martin feels like a teenager again, holding hands with his first boyfriend and thrilling at the sense of braving the public’s attention, except that now the public is less interested in two men, as they are two exhausted, dirt-streaked, paranoid-looking men, one of whom’s eerie gaze rests heavily on potential threats.

“People are looking at us,” Martin whispers in Jon’s ear.

“It’s 2018,” Jon mutters, “you’d think Londoners would be more tolerant.”

“They’re _looking,”_ Martin insists through his teeth, “because your eyes are practically glowing.”

Jon’s gaze snaps up at that, catching and holding Martin’s almost nose-to-chin.

“What?”

Martin swallows and licks his lips against the nerves in his belly. It’s been so long since he even brushed against another human being, and Jon really is standing very close.

“Your eyes,” he explains under his breath. “They’re sort of — they’re green around the edges. _Very_ green. Practically irradiated.”

 _“Shit,”_ Jon breathes, closing his eyes and burying his face at last in Martin’s grey jumper. “I didn’t realise — with Peter, and getting you out, it must’ve — the Watcher is —”

“I know,” Martin sighs, releasing Jon’s hand only to tuck his arm around his shoulders and draw him even closer. “Let me handle it.”

Jon tips his head up just enough to be audible, brow creased with concern over his closed eyes. “Are you certain? It could be dangerous.”

“It’s okay,” says Martin, his thumb running reflexively back and forth over the crest of Jon’s shoulder. “You’ve got me.” He closes his eyes, and takes a slow, deep, steadying breath.

“We can’t just disappear, Martin —”

“We’re not disappearing,” Martin breathes on the exhale. He thinks about fog, and peace, and the solitude of standing in the middle of a crowd without being acknowledged by a single soul. “We’re just going unnoticed.”

 _Going unnoticed._ He’s never tried it with another person before, and as he lets the low rumble of the train and the few, hushed voices around them fade into white noise, he wonders idly if having the Archivist with him will undermine his efforts. Then again, that same Archivist has himself only recently left Forsaken, and when Martin focuses, he can sense the wisps of fog and the stale sea air still clinging to the creases of Jon’s jacket. He can probably still See the way out.

He doesn’t need to, in the end. Martin is still strong enough to manipulate the Lonely, it seems, and for the rest of the journey — even the change at Victoria — the attention of passersby slides off the pair of them, glowing eyes and all. Neither of them speak, fearful of disturbing the weight of their unremarkability, but they stick together, loath to lose each other in the fog again so soon. At Stockwell, Martin lets the static fade, unwilling to keep it up for too long, and the strain of watchfulness builds again as they climb the stairs to his flat.

“You still live here?” Jon frowns, as Martin relinquishes his hand to fumble with his keys. “After everything that happened with Prentiss?”

“Yeah?” says Martin, shoving the door open with his shoulder when it sticks. “I didn’t exactly have time to find a new place, not while you were having a breakdown and we were trying to stop the end of the world. Sorry, it’s — a bit of a mess.”

Jon lowers his bag, taking in the tiny apartment, while Martin locks the door behind them and beelines for the bedroom. The open front room is overwhelmingly grey, the colourless sofa, dusty TV, and second-hand, chipboard furniture fading into the bland counters and white goods of a half-heartedly modern half-kitchen. The floor is strewn with the flotsam and jetsam of an absent life: shoes and hoodies tossed aside at the end of the day; junk mail and notebooks discarded within arm’s reach of everywhere; scarves abandoned in the middle of spring, not to be retrieved until the weather turns again. There are plastic bags stuffed under the coffee table and pushed into corners, grocery receipts and crisps lolling out like the tongues of dead dogs, and three half-eaten packets of Hobnobs are immediately visible, with more lying forgotten under stained tea towels and scrunched-up serviettes.

Two empty cereal bowls are crusting over on the little dining table, beside an empty pizza box and a stack of cassette tapes, while the kitchen counter sports piles of dirty dishes, loose teabags, spilled sugar, and the cardboard and foil remains of ready meals. The only decoration on the fridge is a smattering of magnetic poetry with none of the words joined together, a “the” holding up a shopping list multiply crossed out and added to. There is an odour of dust and stale food over everything, underlaid with sweaty socks and pooling water, and sometimes Martin thinks that he can still smell the musty, earthy, rotting scent of Jane’s worms near the door.

“Sorry,” he says to Jon again, as he rushes back into the room with a duffle bag half-full of clothes and starts grabbing things at random: notebooks and pens, a pocket packet of tissues, one of the half-finished Hobnob rolls. “It’s — I haven’t been… really on it, I— I’ve spent a lot of time at work, it’s not —”

“Martin.” Jon cuts him off almost kindly, halting him as he crosses into the kitchen. “I’ve been sleeping in my office since February.”

“Right.” A small, slight laugh hiccoughs out of him, drawing an answering smile to Jon’s lips which eases the self-consciousness twisting in his chest. “Yeah. Thanks.” He jumps back to his task, rummaging in one of the drawers for rattling packets of off-brand paracetamol and antihistamines. “So — how far north did you say we’re going?”

“Scotland,” Jon answers, still rooted to the spot near the front door but following Martin’s back-and-forths with his head as he digs out an unopened packet of crisps and a handful of muesli bars. “The north of Scotland.”

“Right,” Martin sighs, tossing the lot into the duffle and pausing to scratch the back of his neck. His jumper is warm, but probably not warm enough, and Jon’s only in his work clothes… “Coats, then?”

“It’s only September,” says Jon.

“It’s only Scotland,” Martin counters. “And — how long are we expecting to be there?”

Jon’s bashful silence speaks volumes.

“Right,” Martin says again, toes off his sneakers, and lowers himself to the thin carpet by the sofa. “Have you got any better shoes than Oxfords?” he asks, as he reaches under the furniture to extract a pair of thick boots. Jon looks down at his feet, tilting them this way and that in the prim, worn leather.

“No?”

Martin hums, pushing aside a crumpled blanket to sit on the sofa and put on the boots. “Might have to fix that later. Here —” he adds, grabbing a thick, knitted scarf from under the coffee table and tossing it at Jon, who catches it with his chest. “I guess green’s your colour now.”

“Martin,” Jon starts — but he doesn’t seem to know where he’s going with that, and the sentence on his tongue peters out completely when Martin pushes to his feet and marches back into his bedroom for more clothes.

“Can you grab my toothbrush, please?” he calls back to Jon. “Just across the hall here — only other room, you can’t miss it.”

“Of course…”

He hears Jon step gingerly through the mess, trying not to dislodge anything lest he reveal something gone mouldy with neglect. The bathroom isn’t much better than the rest of the flat, with a cubicle shower whose panels are opaque with soap scum, and a sink and toilet in need of a good scrub; Martin stops himself from apologising again at the thought. He can hear Jon rattling around in the mirrored cabinet, grabbing Martin’s toothpaste and orange, plastic toothbrush, a stick of deodorant, an unopened bar of soap, and a disposable razor.

In his room, Martin pauses with his head in his wardrobe, psyching himself up. _He already knows, you berk — just ask!_

When Martin calls out again, his voice is a little thinner than before. “And my T stuff? Black leather bag, top of the cabinet.”

Jon will spot it immediately, of course: about the size of a glasses case and peeling around the seams and zip. It definitely isn’t _real_ leather, but Martin likes to pretend.

“Got it,” Jon calls back to him. Martin hears the cabinet snap shut, before a long, tense silence falls in the hall. He digs out a few extra pairs of socks, finds woollen hats and gloves, and pulls a heavy brown coat over his shoulders.

“Um — Martin?”

Jon’s tone is curious and wary, and it makes Martin’s heart quiver to hear it in his own flat. He grabs a plastic bag from the bottom of the wardrobe, and crosses the hall. In the bathroom, Jon is leaning close to the mirror, scratching daintily at the surface.

 _Right,_ Martin thinks — _I forgot about that._

The cabinet mirror is curiously fogged over, as it has been for months, now. It isn’t from steam — the room is only as damp as any other cheap London bathroom, and hasn’t been used since Martin’s morning shower — and the film doesn’t come away under Jon’s nail like dirt or dust should.

“Oh,” Martin says simply, shoulders falling. “That.”

“‘That’?” Jon repeats, incredulous. “Martin — what is it?”

“I’m not sure,” he shrugs. “It appeared after I started working for Peter. At first I thought it was just dirt, but nothing I tried could get it off. Funny. You’d think staring at yourself alone in the mirror would be _good_ for the Lonely.”

There is a pause as they both stare at the impenetrable mirror, their indistinct reflections hovering inscrutably before them. Then Jon grabs at the plastic bag in Martin’s hand and pours out his armful of goods, only to pull Martin in instead, wrapping his arms around him at an angle and pressing his cheek into the scratchy polyester of Martin’s coat. The shock of it causes Martin to freeze.

But Jon doesn’t let go, and eventually, as they breathe together, Martin relaxes slightly, and gathers himself enough to close his free arm around Jon’s back.

“I’m sorry,” Jon whispers. “You never deserved this.”

In that moment, despite their physical closeness, Martin feels somehow distant from Jon, his sympathy struggling to penetrate a layer of confusion. _Why this?_ he wonders. _It’s only a mirror. Why does_ this _make him want to hug me?_

“I chose it, Jon,” is what he says, his voice sounding flat even to his own ears. But it’s true. Jon is acting as if a terrible wrong was done to him, but Martin certainly had more of a choice in the matter than Jon did in his. “I knew what I was getting into.”

“I wish you’d never needed to.”

Well. Martin has no response to that.

It takes almost a full minute, but they eventually pull apart, in silence. Martin adds a couple of bottles from the shower to the plastic bag and pulls Jon into his bedroom to throw a down jacket at him, and Jon looks pleased to see that, though the room is small and dark, and the floor around the hamper is strewn with laundry, here, at least, there is a modicum of comfort in the dark red pillowcases and patterned throw.

Martin grabs the winter gear, and a spare stick of lip balm and some combs from the cluttered dresser, then goes to shove everything into the duffle bag on the sofa while Jon crushes the new jacket into his own bag. In the kitchen, Martin takes out his wallet and methodically cuts up every credit card, library card, and loyalty card he has, leaving the shards amidst the mess on the counter. He keeps his driver’s license and one debit card, however, just in case.

By the door, Jon shoulders his backpack once more and holds out his hand, as Martin takes one last look at the place he has called home since his mother went into care.

“God,” he mumbles, “this place is going to be a nightmare to clean when we get back.”

Jon swallows, and does not respond to that.

“Martin?”

He looks over at Jon — at his outstretched palm — and hefts his duffle bag in one hand, taking Jon’s with the other.

“Let’s go, then.”

It is mid-afternoon by the time they reach King’s Cross Station, though it feels like it should be much later. Jon dithers for long enough over the possibility of being recognised or questioned while buying tickets that Martin rolls his eyes and marches up to the counter himself, plastering a polite smile on his face. He already has fake names for the booking resting in the back of his mind — Chris Holsworth and Samir Peachy — and chuckles at the reaction to his wad of cash, apologising for having been paid such for “a gig”. It is all very false, and very familiar.

When he gets back to Jon, the man clutches his arm very tightly, and informs him that his eyes have gone grey.

They buy wilted sandwiches and bottled water at a station café while they wait for the train, and watch a muted television inform them of a shooting at a research centre in Chelsea. Jon picks up a handful of maps at a tourist shop, and they decide to buy a phone when they get to Scotland. It strikes Martin that he is running away from everything he knows, and travelling further than he’s ever been, and that there are dangerous forces chasing them, and surely he should be amazed by it all. Instead, his feelings just oscillate between hollowness and fear, interrupted now and then by the push and pull of a rolling affection. Jon has been staying close to his side, holding his hand whenever possible, and his touch affects Martin like the tide, now a background hum of awareness, now a breathtakingly tangible presence, anchoring him to reality. It should be momentous, but the bright spots of awareness in the haze of passing time never register for much longer than they last, and Martin cannot tell whether it’s the unreality of the situation, or the grip of Forsaken, that keeps him from processing them.

Next thing he knows, they’re on the three-thirty to Edinburgh, settling into plush seats with their arms twined between them. Jon gives Martin the window seat, possibly to let him enjoy the view, possibly to ensure that he has no chance to escape or be taken away. Finally, the frantic sense of momentum begins to fade like adrenaline. The ordeal in the tunnels, climbing the Panopticon, learning about Magnus, confronting Peter, the draining trip through Forsaken; at last they take their toll, redoubled by the flight through London, and Martin feels exhausted to his bones. To be fair, Jon hardly looks any better — his cheeks are gaunt, his limbs tremble at intervals, and the bags under his eyes make Martin wonder how unwell he looks himself — but still the Watcher resides at the boundary of his gaze, giving his expression a sharp and other-worldly edge which Martin, in the delirium of his fatigue, could easily describe as _holy._

He falls asleep before he can foolishly say as much, drifting off with his head against the window and his glasses tucked into the front of his shirt, their coats and bags tucked under their feet and Jon’s hand still clasped over his own.

Jon nudges Martin awake near Berwick in time to drink a cup of bad tea from the buffet car and watch the Scottish border race past the window. Beyond the scrub and a yellow-green field, the ocean rolls darkly under the gathering night, beyond the reach of the last rays of sunset. Unbidden, a smile touches Martin’s mouth, despite the weak tea and their reason for being there.

“Have you ever been?” he asks, keeping his voice quiet amidst the faint rumble and murmur of the train and its other passengers.

“To Scotland? Yes,” says Jon. He looks wistfully past Martin at the coast speeding by. “We went to the Edinburgh Fringe a few times in college. Me a— and Georgie…”

A familiar, melancholy crease appears between his brows, and in a sudden rush of feeling, Martin wants to kiss it, to smooth out the lines worn by sorrow and terror on Jon’s too-old face. He hasn’t felt so strongly in months, had almost forgotten what it was like: the tightness under his sternum, the twitch in his hands, and the inescapable sense of _pulling,_ of being impelled towards Jon like a mule drawn by the nose. But Jon wouldn’t — he doesn’t — he _never —_

Jon has already performed one miracle today. For Martin to ask another of him would be selfish.

Instead, he settles his hand on Jon’s wrist in sympathy. “I know she’s your friend,” he says softly, “but she wasn’t exactly generous to you when I spoke to her.”

A heavy sigh falls from Jon’s lungs, his eyes still on the fading view outside. “I can’t blame her,” he says. “Especially now that she has Melanie to look after. Neither of them deserve to be dragged back into all of this.”

The tightness in Martin’s chest constricts at the mournful resignation in Jon’s voice, and he wishes terribly that he could do something to fix it, to make Jon feel safe and happy and loved, just once in all this horror. His eyes fall to the pitted scars along Jon’s cheek and jaw, the line across his neck; he feels the edges of burn marks under his fingers, and thinks about all the tragedies that don’t leave physical marks.

Then Jon turns his arm and interlaces his fingers with Martin’s, styrofoam cup steady in his other hand. “It’s not all bad, though,” he says, and a small but radiant smile tugs at his mouth, blissfully unaware of how much it makes Martin want to kiss him. “I have you.”

There are a thousand words in Martin’s throat, and none of them are able to break free. He just swallows against them, and squeezes Jon’s hand, and goes back to his too-sweet tea and the reflections obscuring the ocean in the window. He knows he has Jon’s love: knows it in his muscles and organs, in the core of his mind, in a way only possible because of how Jon had placed his hands on either side of Martin’s face and asked him to Look, shown him a truth inlaid in the very fabric of the universe. He knows it, because they were able to walk out of the Lonely, and no one, not even the Archivist, can do that without _some_ connection of the heart. How can he possibly complain, then, that it isn’t the exact kind of love that he wants? Martin Blackwood has been gifted with something beautiful, with friendship, company, and understanding, something he can cherish and return. It would be ungrateful — not to mention suicidal — to reject it as a disappointed romance.

Still, that doesn’t quell the compulsion in his chest, or the nervous flutter high in his belly. Jon is holding his hand because they both need the connection; because they were apart for so many months; because they’re the last ones left; because there’s no way he hasn’t listened to the tape with Elias, and he’s a good enough man to let Martin have this compromise. A held hand, and a life saved. It _will_ be enough.

They have fifteen minutes at the station in Edinburgh to buy new tickets and hurry along the platforms to tumble onto another train, and Martin spends the entire time craning his neck to catch glimpses of the city outside. Once they’re settled on the express to Glasgow, it’s far too dark to see outside, but Martin tries anyway, keeping himself busy while Jon sifts between a street map of Glasgow, a book of hiking trails, and a pamphlet of transit options in Aberdeenshire. He shows no sign of telling Martin where they’re going, an arrangement with which Martin is perfectly satisfied: he has hardly any experience travelling in unfamiliar places, and the less he knows, the less he can give away.

After twenty minutes, Jon shoves the maps back into the side pocket of his bag and settles in next to Martin, both hands tucked into the crook of Martin’s elbow.

“Aberdeen after this,” he mutters, with his face turned absently downwards and a vigilant glow around his irises. “I think we’ll have to take a bus.”

“Will we have time to get some food?” says Martin as he draws his arm closer, and Jon with it. “We should’ve eaten on the way to Edinburgh, I _knew_ I shouldn’t have fallen asleep…”

“No, it’s fine,” Jon hushes, smoothing out the folds of Martin’s jumper around his upper arm. “We’ve got about half an hour to spare when we get to Glasgow, I’m sure we’ll be able to find a kebab or something.”

“Thank God,” Martin sighs. “And then?”

Jon’s eyes shine, and the woman across from them frowns momentarily.

“I’ll tell you when we get there,” says Jon, an apology hidden in the depth of his tone and the line of his mouth. “Can’t be too careful.”

Further down the carriage, Martin spots a teenager, standing near the door and watching them with wide eyes. They’re in half a school uniform, with chunky headphones, a baggy jumper, and a combination of self-administered hair bleach and a fringe long enough to hide one eye, while the backpack at their feet is riddled with badges, patches, and safety pins. Martin doesn’t stop the recognition from showing on his face: his smile prompts a flurry of blinking, a blush of embarrassment, and an averted gaze, but not before Martin can catch the tight, restrained grin.

They’ve got the wrong idea, but it doesn’t matter. Martin breathes a little deeper, only noticing the chill in his lungs once it’s dissipated.

They do find kebabs near Glasgow Central, devouring them as they amble down the wet, shining streets to the bus station. Martin keeps fumbling, trying to keep his bag on his shoulder and use both hands to eat, but he drops slivers of onion and lettuce along the way, and when Jon says, entirely deadpan, that he’s leaving a trail for the hunters to follow, two seconds of terror pass before Martin catches the glint in Jon’s eye and realises it’s a joke. He snorts into his food, causing a full-on smile to bloom across Jon’s face, and picks out a piece of lamb to throw at him. The scramble to figure out where to buy bus tickets is lightened by the drop of sauce Martin has to point out on Jon’s collar.

Fifteen minutes later, with backsides damp from the benches and guiltily smelling of chilli and garlic, they board a coach and snag a pair of seats towards the back. Jon takes the outer seat again, pausing to stow their bags in the rack above their heads. The bus is stiflingly warm against the early autumn chill outside, and they strip off an extra layer before they get settled. Then Jon is back next to Martin, hip to hip, arms and hands twined between them. It’s getting late, and they’re going to the end of the line.

Martin dozes until the coach leaves the city behind, then drifts into sleep, not waking until a narrow turn in the approach to the station at Aberdeen three hours later. His head is tipped so far back against the headrest that he has almost certainly been snoring, but the few other passengers don’t seem to be bothered.

Under his chin, Jon has bundled himself up against Martin’s side while he slept, hugging onto Martin’s arm, cheek cushioned just below his shoulder. The lighting on the bus is pale and dim, washing out the dark colours of Jon’s skin and hair.

Martin shrugs his shoulder and flexes his trapped hand, tipping Jon into wakefulness with an ungainly snort. He blinks rapidly and gives an enormous yawn, before mumbling, “We need to do something about your hair.”

Martin frowns. “My hair?”

“It turned white shortly after Dundee.”

The bus takes another tight corner as Jon leans down to gather up his bag, and Martin whips around to check his reflection in the dark window, jaw dropping. True to Jon’s bleary prophecy, his hair has gone completely, unnaturally white, a cloud crushed flat on the back from his nap. Even his eyebrows and eyelashes have been drained of colour. Jon tugs at his shirtsleeve to make him turn back around, and starts fiddling with his collar to cover the closeness of their hushed conversation.

“No one was watching,” he explains, “and anyone who noticed the change is already rationalising it to themselves. It’s late, they were tired, they’re confused. But it _is_ noticeable. Much more so than whatever my eyes are doing.”

“And attention is the last thing we want to be drawing,” Martin finishes for him. Jon’s hands, done adjusting the crumples in his shirt, come to rest flat against his chest, and he glances up to catch Martin’s eye.

“It won’t be in any missing person descriptions,” he offers.

“Yeah, but someone’s more likely to remember the two black and brown English blokes, one tall, one skinny, glasses, greying, in office clothes, if they’re already paying attention because one’s all…” Martin rolls his eyes up and raises his brows to indicate the shock of tight, pale curls.

Jon nods, his mouth a thin line of concentration. He pats Martin’s shoulders with both hands as the bus squeals faintly to a halt, and pushes himself to his feet to drag their things down from the rack. Before Martin can stand, Jon drops his bag on the seat and rummages around for a moment before brandishing a pink, woollen hat with a little bobble on top.

“It’s nearly two AM,” he says flatly. “It’s cold out. You’ll want this.”

The corner of Martin’s mouth lifts without meaning to at the stilted delivery; but he isn’t technically wrong, so Martin takes the hat and pulls it down over his head, making sure to tuck away the stray tufts of hair that escape around the sides. When he looks back at Jon, the man is stifling a laugh. It seems to make his whole being shine.

“Shut up,” Martin mutters, zipping up his bag and pulling his jumper on over the lot.

“What?” says Jon, surprisingly convincing given his last display. “It looks fine.”

“Shame we forgot to bring sunglasses, or we could cover your eyes.” They heft their things, and amble off the bus after the other passengers, into a damp wall of cold. Martin carries Jon’s bag for a while as he pulls on his jacket, asking, “So? Where to now?”

“Well,” Jon huffs, taking back his bag — “we’ve got four hours until the train.”

Martin sighs, and rubs his aching eyes, trying to chase away the last dregs of sleep and face the grimness of their prospects.

“Four hours in Aberdeen before dawn.”

Jon’s reply is so deeply sardonic that even Martin can tell.

“Will the fun ever end?”

It is slightly too cold for comfort in the blanketing dark between midnight and morning, especially on the floor of Aberdeen Station, and it only takes so much time to use the loo, buy tickets from the machines, and double check the maps. They polish off the Hobnobs and a couple of muesli bars, and refill the water bottles they bought at King’s Cross, and huddle together by a wall to wait, each crossing their arms tightly around their bodies to try to preserve some warmth.

“Jon?” Martin slurs sometime around four thirty, quietly enough that his voice doesn’t echo around the cavernous building. Jon hums his acknowledgement, almost covered by the coat they’ve draped over their knees. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Jon mumbles into Martin’s jumper.

Martin tries to find the words, and lands on the simplest possible summation.

“Saving me.”

At that, Jon lifts his head and peers up at Martin, his expression almost comically angry. The glare turns to suspicion, then a kind of resignation, as Jon squeezes his eyes shut and jabs his head half-heartedly against Martin’s arm.

“Trust me,” he mutters, shrinking back down, “it was an entirely selfish action.”

“No it wasn’t,” Martin sighs; the echo of his breath comes back to them a half-second later, tripled and empty. “Just take the gratitude, okay? I mean it: _thank_ you.”

Jon sniffs, and it sounds suspiciously wetter than the light chill should warrant.

“You’re very welcome, Martin.”

The first station café opens at six. It leaves them just enough time to buy hot drinks (coffee for Martin, strong black tea for Jon) and ham and cheese croissants that they scoff as they board the first train to a place called Insch. Martin keeps thinking the signs are misspelt. They don’t speak much — too busy trying not to doze off for the surprisingly short trip — but Jon sits against Martin’s side, touching at the hip, thigh, and shoulder. He doesn’t realise how cold he has become, in their tiny separation, until he can once more leech the warmth from Jon.

They’re the only passengers to get off at Insch, where the air is cold and clear, and the little, whitewashed building on the platform is just blooming with colour in the growing dawn. Jon tugs Martin along over the rail bridge to a bus stop nestled behind the station, the clanging of their shoes sounding unreasonably loud in the silence of the train’s wake.

As Jon scrutinises a washed-out timetable, Martin takes a moment to gaze out at the town. None of the buildings he can see are higher than two storeys, and all are made of quaint, grey stone, or plastered over in white and cream, with old-fashioned chimney pots sticking out of every roof. He can hear the faintest echo of someone else’s footsteps in the town, but he cannot tell from which direction they are sounding. Further down the cul-de-sac, around a tall hedgerow, the cobbles change abruptly into tarmac.

“Martin?”

Down the main road, stretching out ahead of him, he counts half a dozen lighted windows, early risers getting ready for work or young children overeager for the day. The rising sun will soon begin to warm the rooftops, and people drip out into the streets, greeting each other with the kind of friendly familiarity only found in small towns, while Martin stands in the shadow of the train station and watches, like a curious alien in this place.

_“Martin!”_

He turns, and for three full seconds, Jon is entirely out of focus as he runs down the cobblestones. His hands on Martin’s arms feel like an electric shock, jolting him into a breath and a rush of pins and needles from elbows to fingertips. Skidding to a halt before Martin, Jon resolves into sudden, brilliant clarity: eyes bright, skin marked, hair sticking out, clothes creased.

“Sorry,” Martin gasps, his hands reflexively returning Jon’s grip on his forearms. “I don’t know what happened. I just wanted to see the village…”

“You dropped your bag,” says Jon, ducking his head to try and see into Martin’s face. “You left it with me and just wandered off.”

“Sorry,” Martin breathes again, and Jon’s hands tighten.

“Don’t apologise,” he almost snaps. “This wasn’t you.”

Martin can’t help the dubious look he sends him. “I’m not sure about that.”

At that, Jon’s hands turn to vices on his arms, his mouth drawing taut and his eyes suspiciously wet. He expels a breath and draws Martin forward, leaning his brow against the front of his shoulder and only letting go in order to loop his arms around Martin’s waist, wrists cautious against the small of his back. It takes Martin a long moment to remember to hug him back: to raise his arms and rest his hands on Jon’s shoulder blades as the feeling comes back into them.

“What now?” he asks, and Jon sighs wearily.

“There’s one bus a day to Strathdon,” he says, muffled by Martin’s clothes. “It left ten minutes ago.”

They amble along the Shevock River for a couple of hours after dawn to stay awake, then head into the town proper once businesses start opening. Martin buys a SIM card and a cheap, basic phone, grumbling all too convincingly about the inconvenience of having lost his while on holiday. They check in to a twin room above the hotel by the station, and wolf down an enormous pub lunch, then spend the afternoon stocking up on snack foods, bread rolls, and a bag of fruit.

Throughout it all, Jon keeps coming back to Martin: touching his arm, holding his hand, leading him with firm fingers against his back. He bumps Martin’s shoulder with his own, sits with their legs or ankles touching under the table, and ensures that Martin is within sight when none of these things are possible. He pipes up with random comments when conversation has lulled for too long, remarking on the clear day, the prices in the antiques shop, the curvature of the earth, and the processes behind long-life milk. In short, Jon mounts a concerted siege against any distance trying to grow between them, and despite Martin’s inability to return the favour, he keeps at it, winning a gradual but undeniable victory.

Dinner is found at a pan-Asian restaurant in town, and they return to the pub early to catch up on lost sleep. Martin takes the single bed furthest from the window and faces Jon across the gap over the bedside table, not sure how he feels about anything. He wants something — wants _close_ and _warm_ and _loved_ , wants Jon’s hand back in his, wants to be anything but alone — but there’s no point in asking, and they wouldn’t fit in one bed, anyway. And there’s something about solitude that remains so… comforting. There’s no risk, this way: nothing ventured, nothing gained.

 _Nothing._ That’s how he feels as he drifts off into sleep. He just feels nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to my research, the first train from Aberdeen to Insch _really does_ arrive ten minutes after the only bus to Strathdon has already left. I sincerely hope that's just because I can only get my hands on COVID-era timetables, because otherwise... holy moly is that inconvenient.
> 
> Come talk to me at [@cuddlytogas](https://cuddlytogas.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin meet some very good cows, and finally reach the safehouse, where they do battle with that most terrible enemy: dust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wonderful art in this chapter ([also found here](https://spellboundcities.tumblr.com/post/636265041240457216/astonishing-the-difference-that-a-few-hours-and)) by Lux (@spellboundcities)!

The alarm on Martin’s new phone wakes them at half past five, where a thin layer of fog blankets the town outside as well as the carpet in the room. After showers and a breakfast of travel-sized boxes of cereal, they leave their keys on the front desk and cross the road to the bus stop with ten minutes to spare, just in case. Only once their tickets are bought and paid for and they are slumped into their seats, does Jon interlock the fingers of one hand with Martin’s and seem to force himself to speak.

“You’ve barely spoken since yesterday morning,” he mutters, barely audible over the growling bus engine as it pulls away from the curb. “Not since… s-s-since we got off the train.” He pauses to swallow, choosing his words. “Are you all right?”

Martin turns his hand between them, flexing his fingers and surveying the edges of the burn mark on the back of Jon’s hand. _What a question for you, of all people, to ask,_ he thinks, with a searing sense of shame and anger in his throat. _When’s the last time someone asked that of you?_

“I’m fine,” is what he says instead.

“The room was freezing last night,” says Jon, a non sequitur to anyone else.

“I didn’t notice,” Martin shrugs.

“That’s not as reassuring as you think.”

Martin can’t help the short, mirthless laugh that falls out of him at that..

“No,” he says, “I guess not.”

“Martin…” Jon sighs, and raises his free hand to Martin’s jaw, turning his face to him. The green around his eyes is fading, but not gone. “What can I do to help?”

There is such sincerity in his expression — such unguarded, gentle sympathy — that Martin cannot bear to either break his heart or lie to him. He takes the hand on his face and lowers it to the pile between them, loath to relinquish the contact, but even more unwilling to jealously pretend that Jon is giving more than he is.

“You’ve done enough,” he answers. “You’re _doing_ enough. I think I just have to keep trying.”

Jon nods, and rests his head against Martin’s arm.

“I’m here for you,” he says, his scarred hands smoothing over Martin’s. “Whenever you need me, if you feel it coming back — don’t hesitate to tell me, to ask for help.”

“That’s not how it works, you know,” says Martin. “The whole point of it… it doesn’t want you asking for help, it stops you even thinking about it.”

_“Martin —”_

“But I’ll try,” he promises. “I will try.”

It’s an hour to Strathdon, through rolling fields and thickets of wildflowers, past distant homesteads and rows of trees, clumped or neatly planted. The hills become gradually taller as dawn chases them across the landscape, getting wilder and wooded with the promise of the Cairngorms to the west. Jon texts the number in Martin’s pocket on their new phone and receives no reply. At last, the bus lets them off, bleary and sore, in a tiny hamlet called Bellabeg, little more than a dozen houses and shops, a weather-worn phone box, and a church, all cluttered around a bend in the river. The place is overwhelmingly green and brown, cottages wrapped in a dew-damp world of hedges, grasses, flowers, and fields, and clusters of trees lining the road and riverbank. Martin thanks the bus driver as they step off.

On a whim that he decides not to overthink, Martin insists that they head up the hill and find a place to sit, a sloping patch of grass by the one-lane road. There is a fence and field to their backs, and a rattling creek in the little valley below, while the sun grows stronger, warming their faces. Jon consults his maps, informing him that the creek is called the Water of Nochty, and Martin feels out the shape of the words between mouthfuls of crisps. He grips his fingers in the ground underneath them, and comes up with soil and grass, and something inside him marvels at it for no reason other than the raw reality of it. His heart feels light; his heart _feels._ Astonishing, the difference that a few hours and some sunlight can make.

Across the creek, Martin spots a scattering of shapes in a field. Before he even registers what they are, he is sitting up with a gasp, frantically swallowing his crisps, and fumbling for Jon’s arm.

“Jon, look!” he cries out, pointing with the crisp packet hand. _“Cows!”_

“Hm?” Jon looks up from his maps to glance at Martin, then follow his outstretched finger. “Oh, yes.” The beginnings of a smile start to tug at his mouth as he looks back at Martin’s face, enraptured. “Have you never seen cows before?”

“Not _highland_ cows, not in real life!” Martin leans over his knees to get even the slightest closer look, picking apart the distant view: four short legs, two horns, a big, flat nose, and a shaggy coat of yellow, looking soft and warm and — “Oh my God, they’re _adorable.”_

Jon laughs at that, a bit subdued, but deep and rich, patently underreacting to the event. “I suppose so,” he says, eyes still on Martin.

“Can we get closer?” says Martin. “I know it might be off-track, and we probably need to be on another bus or something, but —”

“It’s not off-track,” Jon says, and when Martin looks at him, he doesn’t think he’s seen Jon smiling so widely since… _ever._ His face is lit up with it, gentle and human, like his relief at hearing Martin doesn’t have a Masters degree but a hundred times more pleasant, unmarred by suspicion. He just looks… happy. It feels like a world-altering event.

“So we can go and see them?”

Jon nods at the view, at the fields on the other side of the water. “There’s a road down there, that’s what we’re taking.”

“On what, this time?” Martin snorts. “A horse-drawn carriage?”

“Don’t pretend you wouldn’t love that,” Jon chuckles. “You and your _low-fi charm._ I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at these cottages,” he adds, gesturing down the road towards the tiny village. “You love all this rural stuff.”

“Yeah, so?” Martin rolls his eyes. “It’s nice. It’s _quaint.”_

“Careful,” Jon warns, “you’re bordering on pastoral Romanticism.”

“And so what if I am?”

“I thought you were from Manchester?”

“Manchester’s a _city,_ you dirty great southerner!” Martin laughs. “We moved from Manchester to Croydon, and I’ve lived in Stockwell since you knew me!”

“I don’t know!” Jon bursts out. “I thought maybe you travelled around the north as a kid! There are farms there.”

“Oh, and you’ve toured the South Downs, have you?”

Jon stammers a little, taken aback. “I — w— well, m-maybe I have!”

“You _haven’t!”_ Martin cries, and he couldn’t stop himself from laughing if he tried, throwing his head back into it, warmed from head to toe by more than just the sunlight.

“All right, _all right…”_ Jon groans, admirably affecting his usual composure as he stuffs the maps back in his bag and stands. “Let’s go meet some stupid cows for you.”

“They are _not_ stupid!” Martin argues as he grabs his bag and coat and scrambles to his feet after Jon, trotting easily to catch up to him. “I’m sure they’re very, _very_ good cows.”

Jon rolls his eyes. “Good lord, it’s the dog all over again.”

“It’s not my fault you’re a grumpy old man who hates fun,” says Martin, pinching at Jon’s arm. Jon slaps his hand away without ire, ducking his head as if to hide a blush.

“I do _not_ hate fun.”

Martin snorts at him, and promptly lowers his voice, putting on a posh accent he knows very well he’s not good at. “This is an _archive,_ Martin,” he drawls, wagging his finger at no one. “We are _researchers_ and _professionals,_ we do not have time for such childish things as _fun.”_

Jon lunges for his hand, but Martin lifts it above his head where he can’t reach, trying to retain the silly impression through his snickering.

“I’m the _head archivist,”_ he keeps going, Jon glaring at him as they walk. “I don’t like _dogs,_ and I don’t have _fun,_ and I _certainly_ don’t show basic _politeness_ and _courtesy_ to lonely old women who want to talk about their hobbies even though I just barged into their house asking about a spooky missing person from twenty years ago…”

They go on like that, bickering back and forth as they wander down the hill and across the water. Martin eventually relents with his teasing when Jon captures his hand to stop the geography-teacher tutting, and is rewarded with a light barrage about Keats and bad impressions. They follow a sign pointing to a place called Lost (Martin doesn’t call it poetic out loud, but he does tuck the fact away in the back of his mind), and soon enough, they’re drawing up to the field Martin spotted from the hill, with the smattering of cows snuffling and munching about. Martin pulls Jon through the tall grass at the side of the road until he can lean on a fence post, fully aware that his jaw is hanging open and incapable of doing anything about it. Now that he’s closer, he can see a few cows in a darker brown, and how their manes of hair seem to cover their eyes, giving them a cheerfully mopey kind of look. He _desperately_ wants to pet one.

“D’you think they eat apples?” he wonders out loud, and Jon whips around to stare at him.

“Martin, do _not_ feed the strange cows.”

“They’re not _strange —”_

“You know what I mean!”

To their right, a beige-coloured cow lifts its head, pointing its dark, dewy gaze at the interruption to the peace.

“Sorry, I’d love to give you a treat,” Martin shrugs as it plods closer to nose at a different patch of grass, “but the boss here forbids it.”

“God, please don’t call me your boss,” Jon grumbles, stepping up to the fence to snake his fingers around Martin’s upper arm and send a flock of butterflies swarming up from his belly to his chest. “Not here.”

“Agreed,” says Martin, forcing his voice to remain steady. “Felt weird saying it, anyway.”

Jon follows his gaze to the grazing cow as it steps its way closer to them. Then, out of nowhere, he leans over the fence, even closer to Martin, and clicks his tongue, making kissing noises at the beast as if calling over a cat.

Martin stares at him, and his heart _melts._

“I don’t think it’s going to come over for _that,”_ he says with a thready laugh. As he does, though, the cow raises its head and lopes delicately towards them, and Martin sucks in a breath, gripping Jon’s hands with both of his own. “Jon, you are _magic,”_ he hisses, as the cow stops a metre away and stretches out its neck to them, sniffing the air. Martin barely manages to restrain himself from holding out his hand; those horns don’t look like they’d be comfortable sticking out of his arm. “Hi,” he croons, “d’you want to come say hullo? Hullo…”

The cow moves ever nearer, step by careful step. Martin is practically holding his breath: from this close, he can see the intelligence in the animal’s eyes, the dirt and grass stuck in its coat, the twitch of its fluffy ears. A flat, pink tongue flashes out, licking its nose between chomps of grass.

“Oh my God,” Jon breathes.

“Right?” says Martin, matching his tone. “You glad I thought we should say ‘hi’ yet?”

“I’ll never question you again,” says Jon, voice businesslike and gaze still riveted on the shaggy fringe and huggable shoulders.

The cow remains there for a minute, snuffling and cocking its head as they watch in wide-eyed adoration. Eventually, however, it gets bored with the motionless interlopers, and lowers its head back to the grass, plodding away. Martin lets out his breath in a rush at the same time as Jon shakes himself, relaxing at last.

“So,” says Martin, hitching his bag up onto his shoulder as Jon leads him back to the road — “good cow?”

Jon nods solemnly.

“Good cow,” he agrees.

After about ten minutes of walking, they reach the cottages and great sheds of the homestead marked as Lost, and the narrow, gravel road turns to mud and puddles, crosshatched with heavy tyre tracks. A pair of black Staffordshire terriers watch them from behind a gate, and Martin smiles at them as they pass but resists the urge to say hello. Some other time, perhaps. They’ll need to come back this way for groceries, after all…

Five minutes or so down the run-down road, Jon pauses, looks around, and turns off onto a dirt lane between two fields, curving down a gentle slope. Lost becomes hidden by the lush, green rise on their left, the road disappears behind the bend, and the peaceful stillness of the countryside redoubles, the only sounds in the little valley the twittering of unseen birds and the brush of the wind through purple washes of heather. Then Martin sees it: a tiny, one-storey cabin coming up on their left in the lowest part of the valley. Built with grey-brown stone, two chimneys stick up from a roof of dark, slate tiles, and a large, metal water tank stands by the back corner. It is set away from the dirt lane, with a front drive of sandy gravel that is mostly overgrown with plant life, clumps of heather and waving grass interspersed with thistles and clover, and patches of tiny blooms in pink, blue, yellow, and white. It looks like a picture of rustic domesticity, a dream of a world far removed from Martin’s dingy London flat and the bustle and grime of the city. The air is clean and the wildlife unplanned, the whole valley suffused with a feeling of serene acceptance, antique without being uncomfortable, isolated without being lonely.

It looks like heaven.

Martin slows to a halt, and Jon slows with him, giving him time to gaze his fill at the kind of view he’s only ever seen in pictures. Jon’s voice, when it comes, is low and breathy with something Martin cannot quite discern.

“Are you ready?”

Martin closes his mouth, unaware until that moment that his lips had been hanging parted by a shock of contentment. He swallows down a swell of affection for the man beside him: it wasn’t Jon’s decision to put a safe house here, nor was it much of a choice to come here at all. They are being hunted by deadly monsters, the police are probably looking for them on suspicion of something horrible, and Martin nearly died less than two days ago. This is not a honeymoon, or a retreat, or a holiday of any kind. They are here to stay alive, and to avoid hurting anyone else.

Every one of these reminders flies from Martin’s head, however, when Jon takes his hand, looks up at him with a fond, searching gaze, and repeats his words: “Are you ready?”

Martin meets his eye, nods, and smiles, and they approach the cottage in the valley.

The tranquillity, of course, only lasts until they are standing back from the front door, examining patches of moss and papered-over windows, and Martin asks, “So, um — do you have a key?”

Jon bites his lip. “There’s one around here somewhere,” he says, narrowing his eyes and adding, “I mean, I could — _look_ for it, but…”

“Best not,” Martin grimaces. “We don’t want to push it, y’know?”

“You’re right,” Jon sighs, and releases Martin’s hand in order to shrug off his backpack and start picking through the wildflowers, eyes on the ground. “Guess we’re doing this the old-fashioned way.”

Martin drops his bag next to Jon’s, drapes his coat over the top, and gets to it, focusing on the heavy-looking front door with its dark wood and shiny, modern-looking locks. He presses at the edges of the wood and the weather-worn lintels, hoping to feel for hidden compartments or loose panels. Finding nothing, he crouches down to wiggle at the bricks that form the step up to the door, but they are all properly sealed and solid. The stones around the sides of the door are similarly uncooperative, as are the ones that form a windowsill into what is, judging by the shapes beyond the yellowing newspaper, a plain but sizeable kitchen.

Jon turns left, while Martin rounds the corner to the right, finding another obscured window whose stones give him nothing but muddy hands, and a sort of shed set into the corner of the building, its rough wooden fencing overhung by a thatched awning. The gate in the centre is chained and padlocked shut, and no amount of scuffing in the earth or rattling the planks gives up any keys. Standing on tip-toe, he can see through the shadows inside to a stack of firewood, an axe and block, a petrol can, and a large, square, complicated-looking thing of metal that he thinks might be a generator. Behind him, a solitary tap sticks out of the ground which sticks at first, but eventually gushes cold water without revealing any keys.

At the back of the cottage is another unhelpful window, a crate which turns out to be a compost heap, and an open field that eventually leads over the hill towards Lost. A few metres from the back of the building, the soil and grass is interrupted by a large patch of lighter, sandy earth where something has been buried. Martin tries not to think about it.

He meets up with Jon again at the water tank, where the man is just finished fiddling with a series of large, tube-like containers bolted to the side of the building.

“Well,” says Jon, “I think I got the water filter running, at least. Find anything?”

“Nope,” Martin shrugs. “There’s a shed on the other corner, with firewood and I think maybe a generator? And I found a tap just… sticking out of the ground. Why would the house need a tank if it’s still got plumbing?”

“I… don’t know,” says Jon, bewildered. “Maybe it’s groundwater? Like, a well?”

“Oh. Yeah, that’d make sense.” Martin is glad he didn’t try to taste the water. “There’s also something big buried behind the house,” he says with a wince. “Do you think…?”

Jon frowns, and marches through the plants and around the corner to inspect the field at the back; he comes back a moment later, frown a little less prominent.

“I’m going to go ahead and say that it’s probably a septic tank. _Hopefully_ a septic tank..”

That also makes sense. Martin lets himself relax slightly.

“Well,” he says, propping his hands on his hips and looking up at the cottage. “Can’t believe we made it all this way and now we can’t even get into the house.”

“The key must be _somewhere_ around here,” Jon grumbles. “Daisy didn’t carry it with her. She told me the place was always ready, zero preparation required.”

“And… when exactly were you discussing safe houses with Daisy?” Martin asks, not sure he wants to hear the answer. But Jon just gives a nonchalant shrug, toeing at the concrete around the base of the corrugated metal tank.

“I don’t really remember the context,” he says, giving up and heading towards the front of the house.

Martin follows, sighing, “Couldn’t she just have left it under a flowerpot or something like everyone else?”

“I think _not_ doing things like everyone else was rather the point,” says Jon, sounding like he’s holding back a smile. Martin pushes down an irrational little kernel of jealousy, telling it firmly how ridiculous it’s being. It’s not hard when _he’s_ the one privy to the sight of Jon trying to glare the front door into submission.

“It has to be somewhere not obvious to intruders,” he mutters, almost to himself, “but secure for long periods of time. Somewhere she can reach, but if she already knows where it is, she doesn’t necessarily need to be able to see it…”

At which point Martin looks from Jon to the door, realises something, and sighs, rubbing his temples with one hand.

“Hold on,” he says, and approaches the door. He can’t see over the lintel, but it’s not much of a stretch for him to reach up and fiddle with the row of bricks above it until one near the centre comes loose. He prises it away from the wall, a few flakes of grouting showering down onto his hat. There is nothing in the gap, but upon examination, a deep burrow has been drilled into the back of the brick, revealing five modern, silver-coloured keys on a ring. Martin draws them out and faces Jon, and holding the keys up with a jingle of metal

“Ah,” Jon says. “Well done.”

He sounds impressed. Martin’s face goes hot, and he takes a little longer than necessary to replace the brick above the lintel to ensure his blush isn’t visible when he turns around.

“Ready?”

Jon has picked up their bags, one in each hand, Martin’s coat draped over his arm.

“No time like the present.”

The keys are differentiated by simple symbols in black marker on the head — circle, square, and vertical, horizontal, and diagonal lines — but they don’t mean much to the newcomers. Nevertheless, Martin suggests the lines for the front door, leaving the two odd ones out for the shed and the windows, and Jon gives another little noise of impressed surprise. It takes a little bit of fumbling (not helped by Jon’s sound), but they get there in the end, getting all three locks open, shouldering through the sticky creak and swollen wood, and finally stepping into their home for the next… something.

The ceiling is low enough to make Martin worry about hitting his head on the lights. There are a few, sheet-covered lumps that look like a table and chairs on their right, and a sofa and low table before the simple fireplace on the opposite wall. Two rugs and a doormat are rolled and propped up on the left-hand wall beside a half-empty bookshelf. On their right, one step up from the living area, is the kitchen Martin saw earlier, with a large pantry, bar fridge, and stove facing a U-shaped counter which partitions the kitchen off from the rest of the large room. A large, deep sink overlooks the tap in the side garden, next to a small metal barrel that gleams dully in the muted light. While the same, dark wood as the front door has been used to panel the walls and floor of the living space, the kitchen is done up with bare, rustic flagstones. Everything is covered in a thick layer of dust, while the ceiling corners and two, bowl-shaped lights are festooned with limp cobwebs at which Jon directs a curled lip.

“Not every spider is a Web thing, Jon…” Martin sighs, and crosses the room to the only other door, directly opposite. Jon follows cautiously a few steps behind, and Martin is glad for the space when he opens the door into a small, dim room in dark wood with only a dresser near the door, a fireplace on the far wall, and one double bed next to the hearth, draped in a sheet heavy with dust.

_Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, sh—_

“Oh,” says Jon’s voice at his shoulder. “W-well, I — I-I suppose we should have expected as much. Th-that is, Daisy only ever came here alone, so…”

 _Don’t look too keen!,_ Martin’s brain is screaming. _But also don’t look too_ un- _keen, or he’ll see through you anyway!_

“I’ll take the sofa,” Jon finishes in a rush, and escapes the closeness of the doorway to drop their things next to the furniture in question. “It’s too short for you, but I should be able to manage.”

Martin hardly hears him over the frantic rush of his thoughts, paralysing him in the doorway. _Don’t make him uncomfortable,_ he tells himself, _don’t force anything on him, don’t_ seem _like you’re forcing something on him, don’t force him_ not _to do anything —_

“Martin?”

_Don’t ask for too much, don’t be too much, don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t —_

“Martin!”

The next thing he knows, Jon is yanking on his hands, almost violently pulling him around. The movement jerks him out of the spiral he only distantly registers was consuming him, cutting off the stream of his terrified thoughts. Martin blinks, and the main room of the cabin comes into focus again, dusty and dimly-lit. He sees Jon as if through a fog, holding both of his hands and searching his face for some sort of answer. Martin blinks a few more times, until Jon begins to resolve into a person rather than a hazy silhouette with the impression of green where his eyes should be.

“Right, that’s it,” Jon snaps. He must be angry — of course, Martin’s done something wrong again and he’s angry — except that his hands grasp more firmly on Martin’s, tugging at his wrists as if to pull him from a precipice. _“Martin!”_

He blinks again, waiting for the misty film over his vision to clear, for his glasses to de-fog.

“Yes?”

Jon’s hands should be painful, tight as they are on Martin’s wrists, as he forces out a steady breath. “Under no circumstances am I allowing you to sleep alone,” he says, his tone brooking no argument.

Martin’s heart rate jumps up a notch at the thought, of sleeping next to Jon, of what that will do to him, what _he_ might do to _Jon_ —

“It’s okay,” he says, through cold, numb lips, and his voice sounds somehow faint and flat even to his own ears. “I don’t want to impose —”

“Martin, you are _disappearing!”_

And so he is, Martin realises, when he looks down to see that his arms are translucent under Jon’s dark hands, his feet barely visible against the grey of the dusty floor. But that’s okay. Surely, it would be easier…

Jon’s hands dart up to grab both sides of Martin’s head, jolting him up by the ears and jaw.

“We are sharing the bed,” he says firmly. “You are not sleeping alone. Do you hear me?”

Martin does hear him, but he sounds so distant — it can’t be important, what he’s saying — and Martin’s vision glazes over his indistinct form. The door is just there, and the fields and hills beyond it, blissful and uncomplicated and…

Jon’s hand pulls at his cheek like a slap to the face.

“MARTIN!”

 _Oh,_ he thinks — _right — JON._

He feels the return like a snap in reality, a rubber band let go to its natural state. Of course Jon wouldn’t hate him for this! Jon has stood by him, is staying by him. He has allies at the Institute, friends, even; there are people whom he loves, who love him. _Jon_ loves him.

Apparently, he’s done something right, because Jon’s hands loosen against him along with his release of a breath. With a little bit of urging, Martin is able to meet his eye.

“You don’t have to sleep alone,” Jon says again, like an irrefutable truth. Martin swallows, carefully and deliberately forming his mouth around his next words as a legitimate concern rather than a knee-jerk of self-defence.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Jon just smiles at him, warm and understanding.

“It wouldn’t make me uncomfortable,” he reassures. “The bed is big enough for two people, and I — I really don’t mind, Martin.”

“I just,” Martin tries — “I just don’t want you to feel obligated, or, or like —”

“I am _certainly_ not acting out of obligation,” says Jon, with an inscrutable little laugh. “Believe me, I’d much rather share with you than try to sleep out here, wondering the whole time if you’re fading out of existence in there by yourself.”

Martin takes a deep breath against the anxious resistance at the back of his mind, and nods, reminding himself that he is safe, and enough, and has nothing to be ashamed of. Jon loves him, after all; he knows that much. Jon’s smile grows a little wider.

“There,” he murmurs, his gaze flicking back and forth across Martin’s face. “That’s better.”

“What is?”

“Your eyes,” Jon says. “I miss them when you go grey like that. The brown suits you much better.”

Martin doesn’t know what to say to that. He can only hope that his gratitude shows in his face, the relief of a vulnerability nurtured and protected rather than exploited. It must do, if the hug Jon pulls him into is anything to judge by. He goes up on tip-toe to close his arms around him, the fingertips of one hand dipping under the edge of his hat to dig in under Martin’s hair, cupping the back of his neck. His head turns aside to rest his cheek on Martin’s shoulder, and though Martin can’t quite move his fingers from where they are clenched in his own jumper, he curls down to let Jon off his toes, hooking his body around the warmth of Jon’s, settling his own cheek against Jon’s head as his breathing steadies itself. There is a shivery tension to Jon, stretched as he is to reach up and around Martin, but it slowly relaxes at the same pace as the loosening of Martin’s shoulders.

They stand there for a long time, with the front door half open and Martin sniffling now and then, his eyes and throat burning with tears he is incapable of shedding. At last, they are interrupted by a chirruping whistle from worryingly close by, and flinch around to see a tawny little bird hopping over the threshold, poking its beak at the dust for prospective crumbs. Martin can’t help the sob of a laugh that jolts out of his throat, nor the fondness that melts through him when Jon gives an earnest smile and draws his hands along the tops of Martin’s shoulders, urging them to relax.

“Right,” says Jon, in a determined huff. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

The last room they find is a surprisingly spacious bathroom off the bedroom, with a basin sink, a large bathtub, a deep laundry sink in a counter, and a flush toilet. (Martin nearly sighs with relief; he was half expecting to have to go in a bucket.) They test the water at every faucet, where it gurgles and runs brown for a few seconds before settling, and fill the toilet cistern and the tank in the kitchen, which upon investigation turns out to be a purifier for drinking water.

Next is the problem of dust, to which they only turn after tying scarves around their faces. Martin finds a broom behind the rugs and deals with the cobwebs on Jon’s behalf, as he refuses to go near anything that might contain scuttling, and frees the few, tiny spiders that he finds in the garden outside before Jon can see them. In the meantime, Jon finds a dustpan and brush in the pantry and sweeps down the kitchen counters, stove, bookshelf, and mantelpiece — any uncovered surface he can find. They squabble about firewood, but Martin wins: though Jon has technically used an axe before, it was to destroy a haunted table, and he does rather look as if lifting something that heavy would snap him in two.

So, Martin takes the keys out to investigate the shed (square for the padlock), while Jon sweeps the floors. He manages to drag the huge tree stump of a block out into the clearing on the side of the house, and takes a few practice swings with the axe, narrowly avoiding cutting off his own leg. The first few logs take an inordinate amount of work, splintering into uneven kindling, but he gets the hang of it after a while, sweaty and grimy from the crusty wood and disused axe. He ends up taking off his jumper and unbuttoning his shirt, and unthinkingly wiping dirt on his vest, but he also manages to fill a basket with usable wood. When he carries it into the house, Jon stops and stares at him from where he’s been doing battle with the kitchen corners.

“Yeah, I know,” says Martin, rolling his eyes, “I look a mess. In my defence, I don’t even want to know how long it’s been since someone picked up that axe. I think I’ve got splinters…” His arms and legs feel like jelly after the sudden exhaustion of unused muscles, and he perches on the covered arm of the sofa as he inspects his palms, taking at least a bit of the weight off his feet and no longer caring about getting dust on his trousers.

Jon clears his throat.

“I think you did well,” he says, through a crack in his voice, muffled by the scarf. Martin frowns up at him; he looks tauter than a bowstring.

“We’d better take a break,” he says, dropping his hands into his lap. “Is there any food here, or is it muesli bars and stale bread rolls for lunch?”

“Erm…”

A brief assay of the pantry turns up a poker, shovel, and brush, a stack of toilet paper, a bucket full of soaps and cleaning tools, and a collection of large, sealed jars and tinned food. There is enough to keep someone alive for a short while, but it’s a rather depressing list: oil, oats, pasta, rice, dry beans, sugar, and tea, along with some jam and stacked tins of baked beans and tuna. The only spices are a jar of salt, and a plastic pepper grinder from Tesco. Jon and Martin share a look before the miserable display.

“I guess it’s… cold baked beans on… nothing?” Martin winces.

Jon hums, and picks up a tin at random to inspect the label. “Or very plain tuna sandwiches. Jam on bread for dessert?”

“That definitely sounds preferable.”

They make lunch while trying not to touch the counters too much, still streaked with dust as they are, and eat while picking through the kitchen cupboards to figure out where everything is. Daisy only stocked the place with the barest of essentials: a few plates, bowls, and mugs, a stovetop kettle, one saucepan, one soup pot, one frying pan, and a few handfuls of basic cutlery. There are an alarming amount of bin bags, however, and a drawer devoted entirely to well-kept knives with three different kinds of sharpener. They find a shoebox full of tools at the back of one cupboard, one of matches and half-used candles, and another with rope, twine, cable ties, and two old, brick-like mobile phones.

As the food settles and Martin’s limbs start to feel normal again, they sit together on either edge of a corner counter, a peaceful nook amidst the dust.

“I’m going to make a cup of tea,” Martin sighs, hopping down from his perch. “Not sure how good it’s going to be, but — d’you want one?”

Jon doesn’t respond, and when Martin turns back to him, kettle in hand, he’s staring wide-eyed and close-mouthed, apple core still in hand. Martin cocks his head, watching him askance. _Did I do something wrong?_

“… Jon?”

At which point Jon drops his rubbish on the counter, jumps up, and in two steps has thrown his arms around Martin’s middle, pressing his face to his grubby shirt. His hands don’t quite meet at Martin’s back, but they clench in his clothes, the kind of hug that feels encircling and secure. After a long moment of surprise, Martin returns the embrace in an automatic gesture, though he feels rather at a loss. Not that he _minds,_ but —

“All I did was offer you tea,” he says, trying to angle the kettle away from Jon.

“I missed that,” Jon insists into his shirtsleeve. “I missed _you.”_

So Martin holds onto him through the feeling of being punched in the chest by an oncoming train, at least until Jon calms and he can remind him he’s still holding the kettle. When they pull apart, Jon’s hands pat over him, pressing at his sides, chest, shoulders, neck, and arms, like a pat-down at the airport, a once-over check, unfocused and bewildering.

“You can’t actually make tea though,” Jon says, and Martin frowns, bemused and happy for the contact, but baffled by the words.

“And who’s going to stop me?” he says, bristling. Jon is failing to hold back a smile.

“It’s not a matter of who,” he says. “There’s no power yet, and _that,”_ with a nod behind Martin, “is an electric stove.”

Martin looks over his shoulder at the, indeed, ancient electric coil stove, rusting a little at the edges. He deflates, at a loss without his usual backup thing to do, and Jon leans forward to rest his head against Martin’s chest again, shaking with silent laughter.

They clean up after lunch together, then Jon dusts and sweeps the bedroom and bathroom, while Martin gets a bucket of soapy water and wipes down the counters and furniture, scrubbing the stove for good measure. The bookshelf, he discovers, holds a strange, sparse library: pulpy crime and romance novels, a series of medical textbooks, the entire _Lord of the Rings_ series, and a complete works of Jane Austen, alongside _The Well of Loneliness_ , a photo book of opera sets, two recipe books (one of vegan desserts), and collections of Emily Dickinson, Mary Oliver, and Sappho poetry. Martin moves the last three to the end of a row, as a reminder to himself to check them out.

Together, he and Jon take the dust sheets outside and give them a thorough shake, flinching and laughing at the billowing dust and the spider they startle under the couch. They brush and wipe down the bedroom and bathroom furnishings with the last of the frankly disgusting bucket of water, but Martin is filled with a fresh paranoia for preserving it without the safety of a steady city supply. It feels a little momentous when they actually see themselves in the spotted mirror on the cabinet above the basin, streaked with sweat and grime, with their sleeves rolled up and scarves bundled under their chins, Martin’s hair standing out in a frizzy mess from the exertion.

He isn’t sure that he recognises himself. It’s more than just the unfamiliar, snowy look of his hair, so drained of colour as to look fake, his brows and lashes particularly stark against his brown skin and dark, scattered freckles. Jon looks right: he is gaunter than before, his hair growing out from where they shaved it in the hospital and stubble showing on his jaw, but the changes make sense, and merely highlight the shape of the man that Martin has come to know. But as for himself… Martin is so unused to thinking of himself as a presence that the sight of his own body seems unreal to him. The shape of his cheeks and the swell of his chin and neck should belong to some stranger, some other librarian-turned-poet-turned-researcher, and he feels that, with no effort at all, he might float away and let that other man take over.

Then Jon meets his eye in the reflection and smiles in satisfaction, jolting Martin out of his reverie. He rolls his shoulders, feeling every muscle and creaking joint, and smiles back, himself once more.

With the bulk of the dust dealt with, they feel safe enough to remove their scarves and open all the windows, unlocking them and swinging them out wide, leaving the doors open to get as much of a draught as possible. They carry the dining table out between them to the front of the cabin and leave the thoroughly plumped pillows and sofa cushions there to air in the afternoon sun. After a few minutes of puzzled searching, they find linens in the bottom dresser drawers, and make the bed with unpatterned grey sheets and what look like handmade quilts in bright patterns. Neither of them knows how to make a fire, and there’s not even any reception this far out, let alone an internet connection; but they muddle through setting up the hearths through the application of slow reasoning, hazy memories of high school science, and Martin’s one year of scouts as a child. It’s probably a small miracle that Jon remembers to open and check the flues.

Jon insists that they should mop the floors as well as sweep, despite Martin’s argument that it’s fine as it is, so the disgusting water from earlier is thrown into the weeds out the front (now developing an unsightly grey patch), and they pass the mop and bucket back and forth, doing a room each. With no change in his expression of frowning concentration, Jon flicks soap bubbles onto Martin’s ear where they camouflage themselves against his new hair, and Martin is so shocked by the playful gesture that he can do nothing but pat at his damp, fizzling hair and stare; nothing, that is, until Jon breaks enough to crack half a smile, and Martin wants to kiss him so badly that he almost feels dizzy.

At last, they give up for the day, with aching backs and raw hands, while the sun begins its descent from the sky. With the notebook Martin brought, they scribble out a shopping list, passing the pen back and forth as Jon thinks of spices he wants to buy that Martin can’t even spell. They bring the cushions and table back inside as the day starts to cool, and dig out the candles, allowing them to put off figuring out the generator for another day.

Not that they need the light for very long. Sore and weary after the long day — the long _few days_ — both of them drop in energy once the mad rush of activity is over. They eat more bread and tuna, and polish off the Hobnobs and muesli bars in near silence, knees touching under the table. In one final act of productivity, Jon takes the doormat from where it is propped up in the corner, gives it a good shake out the front door, and drops it into its customary place.

“There,” he sighs, brushing off his hands. “Home sweet home, I guess.”

Martin — stacking his notebooks into an empty space on the bookshelf — glances up at his tone.

“No need to sound so sarcastic,” he says, lightly admonishing. Jon tips his head to send him a definite _look_ over his glasses.

“We’re on the run from monsters,” he points out.

“It can still be a sweet home.”

Jon sighs, but doesn’t try to argue.

They don’t even bother lighting a fire that night. The sun has hardly set before they agree to just go to bed, too tired to try and stave off boredom for another few hours. One at a time, they move their toiletries into the cabinet in the bathroom, and wipe themselves down at the sink with flannels rather than brave a cold bath, lit by a single candle perched on the laundry sink. Jon complains that his feet are cold, and Martin adds a hot water bottle to the shopping list, distracting himself from the disarming sight of Jon in purple flannel pyjamas. Then they close and lock every window, turn each lock on the front door, and secure the chain and two bolts into the frame and floor. There’s even a bolt and deadlock on the inside of the bedroom door. In the deep gloom of the countryside, staved off only by the candle in Jon’s hand and under the paranoid influence of the locks, Martin gets so jumpy that he almost forgets to be worried about Forsaken, each chirping bird, gust of wind, and creak of settling wood and pipes bringing to mind the horrible clattering of the limbs of the Stranger that replaced Sasha, or the click of a gun, or the crunch of tyres on the gravel outside.

Then Jon stutters out a question about which side of the bed Martin wants, and he’s too busy regulating his breathing to worry about hunters.

“Could — could I have the side near the wall?” he says, voice pitching high up at the end in that way he still kind of hates, instantly giving away his nerves. “Just — it’s a bit further from the door, in case I start wandering, or…”

Jon throws a frown in his direction.

“You sleep walk?”

“Erm — not really?” Martin shrugs, wincing. “I just mean — like, that way, it’s harder for me to leave without thinking about it? And if I wake you up, you can stop me. I just —”

“Is that something you’re expecting to happen?!”

 _“No,_ not —” Martin raises his hands, flat and palms out, as if to physically squash down the panic rising in his chest. “I’m just saying — I-I don’t sleep well, I get up a lot, and I’m not sure I’m always… _there,_ y’know? But I never had someone else around to help with it, and if I slip now, I don’t know if I’ll be able to get back, and —”

“Right.” Jon’s empty hand is a tight fist at his side, and he takes a deep breath, letting it out in a steady stream and flexing his fingers to relax them. Martin doesn’t interrupt him, just fiddles with his hair behind his ear. “Right,” Jon says again. “I’ll try to… right.” With which he marches to the side of the bed by the fireplace, folds his glasses and places them on the mantel, and throws back the covers.

“Also,” says Martin, not leaving the doorway — “we’re going to need new pillowcases.”

Jon looks up at him, frozen halfway through placing the candle on the floor. In answer, Martin pulls at a strand of his hair, straightening it out to its full length for Jon to see.

“My hair?” he says. “It dries out on cotton, and I wouldn’t bet on _that_ being any better than a poly blend.”

“Oh.” Jon glances at the pillows behind him, then back to Martin, who lets his hair spring back into place. “Remind me to put it on the list in the morning.”

And he tucks his socked feet under the blankets and starts shuffling into place.

 _Well,_ Martin thinks, sucking in a breath — _this is it._

He sets his glasses down on the other end of the mantelpiece, and makes his short way around to the other side of the bed, where there’s not quite enough space to manoeuvre between it and the wall. The edges of his stretched-out tracksuit rustle against the floor with every step; it’s been years since there was any elastic left in the waist or ankles, tumble-dried one too many times in Martin’s rush for clean clothes between workdays. He feels heavy and awkward as he gets under the covers and faces the wall: he’s moving the bed too much, his limbs are cumbersome and graceless, he doesn’t know how far away to lie, he can’t relax like a normal person should, he’ll take up too much space, it’s only a double after all —

“You all right for me to turn out the light?”

Martin doesn’t meet Jon’s eye over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he says, tucking his arm under his head. “Go ahead.”

The shadows in the corners flicker in the warm, faint candlelight for a moment longer. Then Martin hears a puff, the light goes out, and the faint aroma of a smoking wick reaches him. He feels the mattress dip as Jon settles, then stillness falls upon them at last. Martin keeps his back to Jon, hyper-aware of how loud his breathing sounds in the darkness, how every tiny movement makes the covers shush like a cartoon librarian. He can hear himself blink, and while minutes ago he was exhausted from the travel and labour, now he isn’t sure he’s ever going to sleep.

There is the hush of a turning limb that isn’t his.

“Martin?” Jon whispers from behind him. He clamps his mouth shut and hums his acknowledgement. “Would you — I mean, sh-should I…” The bed shivers and dips again as Jon rolls over. “God, this is going to sound so stupid,” he mutters, then goes on a little stronger — “would it help if I touched you?”

_Jon’s hand in his or around his elbow, Jon’s knee under the table, Jon’s hip and side, Jon’s head resting on his shoulder and leaning on his chest, Jon’s arms around him, Jon’s fingers in his hair, Jon, Jon, Jon, Jon —_

“Martin, look at me, please.”

He curls up tighter on his side, squeezing shut his eyes and holding his breath. _Don’t ask for too much, don’t be too much, don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic._ There is a jostling movement, and then Jon is gripping his shoulder, pulling him around to see his face as his voice rises from a whisper to a firm, careful order.

“Martin, _look at me.”_

He opens his eyes. Jon’s irises are still ringed with green, and from this close, mixed with the moonlight filtering through the covered window, they give off just enough of a glow to discern the fear in Jon’s expression.

 _“Yes,”_ bursts out of Martin with his breath, even as shame at his own neediness fills his chest. “Please.”

“All right,” Jon soothes, back to his whisper, his hand relaxing on Martin — “all right. Could — would y— turn over?”

Martin complies, sick with embarrassment at being so weak as to beg, with guilt at making Jon do this for him when he’s already sacrificed so much. But Jon doesn’t grumble or roll his eyes, or even hesitate. His hand stays where it is, guiding Martin around until he is lying on his back, allowing Jon to wriggle down under the covers, not so close as to classify as an embrace, but with his hand curled over the front of Martin’s shoulder. He faffs about for a moment, deciding where to put his other arm and settling for tucking it back under his head, and Martin fumbles for somewhere to put his right hand, trying to settle it on his own hip without jutting his elbow into Jon’s stomach. This close, Jon is warmer than he would have expected, for which he berates himself: he might be cool in demeanour, and his eyes might glow a little, but he’s still human. And it’s only September.

Jon tucks his nose down near Martin’s arm and gives a sigh of the deepest relief and contentment, eyes closed and limbs loose. Unbidden, Martin feels his body responding in kind, giving in to the downy mattress and fatigue. Jon’s hand is a spot of bright, grounding heat, pinning him kindly to the bed.

Martin’s head tips to the side, and — faster than he can ever remember — he is asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me at [@cuddlytogas](https://cuddlytogas.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Martin calls Basira, he and Jon get on-the-run makeovers, and they each have a little bit of a breakdown.

For the first hazy minutes of consciousness, Martin decides that it must all have been a dream. He is going to meet Peter this morning in expectation of a map and, hopefully, an explanation, and either they’ll make a move against Extinction, or… something else. He hopes he doesn’t die, but honestly, if it achieves something, he won’t be all that put out if he does.

The last three days come back to him slowly, alongside his awareness of himself. _The Panopticon,_ he remembers, as he starts to register the morning light pestering his eyelids. _The Lonely; Jon._ The mattress, much softer than his own, pushing up against his belly and ribs. _Basira; leaving London; the train, the train, the bus — Aberdeen station._ His fingers are a little tingly from lying with his arm shoved under his head for too long, his cheek squashed and drool leaking from the corner of his mouth. _A day in Insch; Bellabeg; Lost…_ Something downright hot is next to him, and the covers shift gently over someone else’s breathing. _The cabin, cleaned and sorted._ Warm skin, and the brush of someone’s breath against his right arm.

_Jon._

Even though Martin is expecting to see him, he’s entirely unprepared for the reality of prising open his eyelids to the sight of a messy mop of hair, sticking out in clumps of grey, black, and white, shining brown in places in the filtered light that falls over them both. Jon is lying on his left side, facing inwards, and he seems to have made an attempt to hold on through the night, his hand draped over Martin’s elbow. His free arm is curled up against his chest, and his head is tucked down towards the protection of the covers. Martin blinks a few more times to clear his vision, sucks up the drool, and rolls over a little, lifting his head for a better look.

Behind Jon’s closed eyelids, there is a familiar green glow, bright enough now to outline the veins in the thin skin. The light trembles slightly with the twitching of his eyes as he dreams. Martin feels faintly sick: the glow is one thing, but Jon lying still with twitching eyelids is all too reminiscent of…

Martin squeezes his eyes shut to banish the image, and opens them again. Jon is not dead. His shoulders rise and fall with his breath, he is wearing soft, purple flannel, and he is half-coiled in a comfortable bed, not reclined motionless in a hospital cot. He looks relaxed, for once — as much as possible with the twitching, glowing eyes — rumpled and messy with sleep. Outside, birds warble and chitter, and Martin thinks he can hear a distant piece of farm machinery, but inside the cabin, there is only the sound of their breathing and the hush of the sheets, and the occasional pop and creak of the cabin settling in the sunlight. It feels invasive just to have seen Jon like this, as if Martin is stealing a glimpse of something intimate and sacred without permission.

Except that he _was_ given permission. Jon chose to sleep here, chose to share the bed with Martin specifically, fully accepting the defencelessness of their positions. The thought makes Martin fall back to the pillow, deliberately steadying his breathing. For a while, he drifts between sleeping and waking, dreaming in disjointed snatches of grey landscapes. The sun grows stronger beyond the ageing newspaper until he can’t be bothered to defy it any longer, and he eases his arm out from under Jon’s hand and rolls to the edge of the bed. He tries to get up with as little movement as possible, not wanting to wake the other man, though he is stiff and sore from all the cleaning, and tip-toes to the dresser where Jon’s watch informs him it is 7:53AM.

At the jingling of the keys, Jon wakes suddenly behind him, jolting up onto his elbow with a sharp intake of breath.

“Martin?” he rasps at the empty side of the mattress, swallowing, then twists around to look to the door, squinting against the lingering sleep.

“It’s okay,” Martin whispers into the quiet room. “I’m just going to think about breakfast.”

“You said you might wander,” Jon croaks, fumbling to turn over and sit up in confrontation. Martin snorts a laugh.

“Yeah,” he says, “but I don’t think _getting up in the morning_ counts.” He finishes with the locks and sets the keys back on the dresser as Jon blinks, processing his words.

“What time is it?”

“Coming up on eight.” The air in the main room of the cabin is cooler than the bedroom, fresh and further from the rising sun. “D’you want tea?”

Jon nods mutely, then sighs and shakes his head as he buries himself back under the piled-up blankets.

“Can’t,” he mumbles. “No power.”

 _Right._ Martin takes a moment to beg the heavens for patience. Maybe if he starts a fire…

The cabin still smells of dust and stale air, so Martin opens the windows while dreaming about battery-powered kettles. As he massages his lower back and digs around the cupboard for something for breakfast, he hears the toilet flush, and running water. Across the wild front garden, a squirrel bounds through the tall grass.

Jon is holding his glasses in his hand when he appears from the bedroom, half-dressed in trousers and his sleep shirt under the flannel pyjama top, and feet wrapped up in —

“Are those my slippers?”

Jon stops mid-way through rubbing his eyes and frowns down at his feet, tilting them as if to better discover the obvious answer.

“Oh,” he answers, sounding genuinely surprised. “Yes. Is that all right?”

“It’s fine!” says Martin, possibly a little _too_ quickly. “No, it’s all right, I wasn’t using them. And you don’t have any of your own. And it’s a bit chilly, it’s still early.”

“Thanks.”

Jon shuffles over to the kitchen, the slippers fitting him surprisingly well. He joins Martin at the pantry, and sighs heavily at the jar of oats in his hand.

“We should’ve remembered to soak some overnight or something.”

Martin hums. It’s a lacklustre option anyway, but it would’ve been better than nothing.

“We’ve still got some bread left,” he says, putting the oats away. “Jam on to—” He stops, sighs, and remembers again: _no power._ “Jam on… going-stale bread?”

Jon nods morosely. “I think the only other option would be cold baked beans, and —”

“Yeah, absolutely not,” Martin interrupts, taking out the jam and shutting the pantry with a _snap._

So Jon sets about with the bread rolls and a knife, while Martin gets water from the purifier and fantasises about stirring sugar into a hot mug of tea. They mumble their way through sparse morning conversation over breakfast, and decide on a plan for the day. Jon winces at the idea of going back into the village, reminding Martin that he’s the main target of all their enemies, and it is carefully decided that Martin will go to buy proper food while Jon tries to get the generator going and finishes off the last of the cleaning.

“Here’s hoping we can get in touch with Basira,” he adds, his expression going solemn.

“We haven’t heard anything,” Martin offers. “And no news is probably good news.”

“I suppose…”

Martin sighs, and resists the urge to place his hand over Jon’s on the table.

“She can look after herself,” he says gently, trying to ease the tension in Jon’s brow. “She was police herself, she was sectioned — I’m sure she knows what she’s doing, a lot better than either of us would.”

“It’s not _that_ I’m worried about,” says Jon. “Well — I _am_ worried, I just — I’m _more_ worried about…”

Jon’s eyes are locked firmly on his empty plate. Martin tips his voice almost to a whisper in deference to the grief in his voice.

“About what, Jon?”

He swallows, and clenches and releases his fists.

“We lost Daisy,” he says, low and hoarse. _“She_ lost Daisy. That’s not going to be easy for her. I’m worried —” He trails off, not finishing the sentence, but Martin can just about fill in the gaps himself: _I’m worried about what she might do instead of coping._

“Basira’s practical,” says Martin, another proffered life rope. “I don’t think she’s the type to go diving into anything without thinking it through.”

Jon laughs at that, mirthless and choked.

“You didn’t see how quick she was to go to Ny Ålesund,” he drawls. “Or run straight to Hill Top Road when I suggested the Web might be influencing my — _feeding habits.”_

Martin blinks, and frowns. “I’m sorry, she went _where?”_

“Hill Top Road?” says Jon, finally looking up at him. “The — the house in Oxford, with the tree, where Agnes Montague was —”

“Yes, I know the house!” Martin rushes out. “She _went there?”_

“We all did,” Jon shrugs. “I mean, we were hardly going to let her go alone, were we?”

“Fair enough.” Martin sits back, trying to process the new information. 105 Hill Top Road has lingered at the back of his mind for years, at the back of everyone’s minds: the haunted house that kept showing up in statements, some related, some apparently unconnected. A stronghold of the Web, with a complicated relationship with Desolation, the place that gave them the spiral table, where Father Burroughs went through the messy push and pull of entities… The idea of just getting in a car and _going there_ is simultaneously unthinkable, and very simple.

Martin looks over at Jon.

“What was it like?”

“Oh,” Jon shrugs, “cobwebby. Empty. Annabelle Cane left her statement for me warning us not to come back, on Institute paper and everything. Under a tape of the first statement I recorded.”

“Under _what?”_

“Your guess is as good as mine,” says Jon, sounding resigned. “But we certainly didn’t find any answers. Anyway, the point is — don’t underestimate Basira’s ability to jump into half-baked ideas if she can’t see any better options.”

“God,” Martin sighs, _“how_ did the two of you survive the last six months together?”

“I ask myself the same thing every day.”

Martin whips his head up to glare at Jon, but he just softens, and says, “Joking,” in a reassuring, if faintly condescending, voice. Martin starts stacking the empty plates and glasses, least of all to give his hands something to do other than resist reaching for Jon.

“Anyway,” he says, resolutely sticking to his optimistic position — “I still trust she’ll be okay. She knows herself, and she’ll have enough to do to stop herself spiralling. But I’ll try and call her when I get to the village.”

“I’m not sure the reception will be good enough for a phone call, not even there,” Jon suggests, and Martin tries to keep his voice normal as he takes the plates to the sink, giving a deliberately nonchalant shrug.

“I saw a phone box yesterday.”

Jon follows him into the kitchen, voice tipping into an insinuating tone.

“So you _did_ see it…”

“Well, it’s _useful,_ isn’t it?” Martin argues, plugging the sink and starting to fill it with soap and water. “As we’re proving right now.”

“And you have no ulterior motive in wanting to use it,” says Jon, eyes sparkling. “There’s no possible reason that Mr Martin ‘I like recording poetry on old tape recorders’ Blackwood would be excited to use an old-fashioned payphone. Oh, get away from there —” he finishes, shooing Martin away from the sink before he can start the washing up. Martin just gapes like a fish out of water for a moment, unable to fashion a response to the good-natured ribbing.

“That’s not my middle name,” is what he lands on, and marches back to the bedroom as Jon chuckles behind him.

Jon is checking the tape recorder from his bag when Martin goes to leave, his empty backpack sitting on top of the dresser. Martin eyes it suspiciously, but refrains from making too harsh a comment. After all, Jon is right: it’s better than no warning at all. He is wary about leaving Jon behind — about going out alone — but needs must, and he only hopes that the Lonely is kept at bay by the bright autumn sunlight, and that the Hunters and Stranger don’t find them in the few moments for which they are separated.

The morning is fresh and fog-free, and Martin says hello to the cows along the way. He notices an especially shaggy dark brown specimen resting under a tree and determines to tell Jon about it when he returns. It takes some time to figure out where everything is — greengrocer, butcher, bakery, convenience store — and Martin indulges himself by spending some time by the River Don, watching the water ripple and flow from one side of the bridge to the other. It’s not his fault he’s never really seen any river but the Thames, so large and polluted that the clear, rustling stream here, surrounded by greenery, seems worlds and eons away.

Satisfied, Martin retraces their steps from yesterday to find the phone box. He hasn’t used one since he was in school, and it tickles his nostalgia with memories of ringing his mum to tell her he missed the bus, and has time to go to the shops before coming home after his evening job at the chip shop. 60p later and consulting the folded paper still in his pocket, he waits for Basira to pick up.

“Jon,” is her first word.

“No,” says Martin, “he’s at h— he’s at the house.”

There is a pause, and Martin hopes he hasn’t already said something incriminating. He’s lied plenty in his time, but he’s never felt _good_ about it, and he’s certainly never been on the run from the law.

“Good,” Basira says, peremptorily. “Keep him out of sight as much as possible.”

“Okay.” Martin swallows; her serious tone has killed the good mood brought on by the lovely morning, but that’s probably a good thing. “Any update?”

“Nothing concrete,” says Basira. “The whole place is on leave during the investigation. No sign of anyone we’re looking for, but I don’t think — I don’t have much of an in anymore, but I don’t think they have your trail. Here’s hoping they’re not tracing this call.”

Martin swallows; he hadn’t considered that. “Is that likely?”

Basira gives a little hum, like a verbal shrug. “No,” she says, “but you can never be too careful. There are plenty of other Hunters who’ve been sectioned.”

Taking a breath, Martin sighs out his terror at that. There’s no point fretting: they’ve done everything they can, and if someone — or some _thing_ — comes for them, they’ll just have to contend with it when it happens.

“And —” he starts, but Basira cuts him off.

“I’m fine, Martin,” she snaps. “Don’t worry about me.”

He knows she can’t see his face through the phone line, but he glares anyway.

“You know that’s just going to make me worry more, right?” he says. “Make us _both_ worry.”

Basira sighs at that, long and steady.

“I’m fine,” she says again, significantly less brusque. “Really. I’ll get through this. I’m not going to do anything drastic.”

“Good. You’re our friend, Basira, we — we’d hate for something to happen to you, especially because of us.”

There is a long pause; Martin adds a few more coins to the phone at its urging.

“They’re using your work headshots,” Basira says out of nowhere. “For the missing persons notices, and I assume for internal purposes.”

“Oh,” says Martin, thinking about how much he used to hate seeing the photo on his Institute ID card. No one’s work ID ever looks good. “So…”

“So you should probably try to _not look like them,”_ she explains impatiently. “Grow a beard, cut Jon’s hair, wear contacts if you can. Dye your hair, maybe.”

“No need,” says Martin, with a curl of horrible humour in his stomach. “Mine turned white halfway to — to the house.”

Basira blows out a breath on the other end, causing a rush of static in his ear.

“Spooky Eye stuff?” she says.

“Spooky Lonely stuff,” he answers. “It’s — I mean, it stands out a bit. It’s only me though — it might’ve happened to Jon too, a bit, but he’s already going so grey, it doesn’t make much difference.”

Basira snorts a little laugh at that.

“Cut his hair,” she instructs. There is a long pause, and the line crackles faintly between them as Martin waits for Basira to speak. “Has he tried it on anyone yet?”

He doesn’t need to ask her to clarify.

“No,” he says, a little tetchily. She makes a sound, and he frowns at the bulky casing of the phone. “He _hasn’t,”_ he insists. “I think he took Peter’s statement — maybe that was more… filling, than usual. He’s a little glowy, but he hasn’t seemed off or anything.”

Basira hums, disbelieving. “Well, he’s going to get hungry eventually,” she says. “What do you plan to do about it?”

 _“Me?”_ Martin forces through the squeak in his voice. “What am I supposed to do?!”

“Lock him inside so he can’t attack anyone.”

“Wh— I — _obviously_ I’m not going to let him attack anyone!” Martin cries, indignant. “But in the meantime, there’s nothing I can do to — to help — to _feed_ him, if he needs it. I already belong to the Eye, I don’t think taking _my_ statement’s going to keep him going for long. _You’re_ the one at the archives!”

“Not now, I’m not,” she shoots back. “Look, just — keep him away from people, all right?”

“He _is_ people, Basira,” Martin frowns. He can almost hear her rolling her eyes in response.

“Sure he is,” she says. “Just — watch him. As soon as I can get into the archives, I’ll grab some statements and mail them to you. All right?”

“All right,” says Martin, his ire immediately deflating. “Yeah, that — that’d be really helpful, actually. Thank you.”

“Good.” They both breathe — in, out — before moving on. “Anything else I should know?”

“I don’t think so,” Martin shrugs. “We’re getting settled, and there’s no sign we’ve been followed or anything. This place is nice,” he adds, gazing out the scratched and dirt-streaked windows of the phone box to the green village beyond. “I mean, _really_ nice. It’s good to get out of London.”

“Shame about the circumstances,” says Basira, and Martin really wishes he could tell if she’s trying to make a joke or not. Jon would know. He always got on with her better.

Martin pushes down the irrational twist of jealousy in his chest.

“Okay,” is all he says. “Well — look after yourself, all right?”

“Will do.” By the turn of her voice, he might even believe her. “Call me again in a week.”

“Okay,” Martin agrees, wishing he had a pen. “Text us if it’s anything urgent. The reception here is awful, but a message might be able to get through.”

“Duly noted.”

“Okay.” He sighs, wishing he could think of something more to say, wishing he could see Basira’s face, wishing —

“I’ll talk to you next week,” Basira says, and hangs up before he can get halfway through a farewell.

Martin takes off his glasses and trudges down the street to the few shops, but his morose, silent mood doesn’t last long. The people behind every counter are friendly and accommodating, curious about the new face. He is bombarded with questions which he barely manages to field, swinging internally between the instincts to recoil and connect. Yes, he’s English; no, he’s not here alone; yes, the cottage out past Lost; no, it’s not his honeymoon (though Martin flushes hot enough at that one that it _must_ be visible how much he sort-of-maybe wishes it were true). Yes, they would’ve preferred halal meat; no, they don’t mind ugly vegetables; yes, a few extra eggs from the Hatchetts’ coop would be lovely; no, he doesn’t have any experience on farms. Martin learns that the cows they met belong to the Stewarts, and that spare petrol for the generator is best bought from Jenny at the combination post office and Spar.

“Jenny” is an older woman with a sensible grey bob and chunky cardigan, who jokes about charging him extra for not being local, then implores him to say if there’s anything else they need. Her eyes light up when Martin asks where he might get a set of clippers, and all but forces him to take her own in a shoebox, insisting that she hardly ever needs it but for her husband’s quarterly trim, and he can bring it back whenever they’re done with it. Martin, stammering flustered attempts to decline, is forced to take the box under his free arm, encumbering him enough that he also can’t refuse the bottle of merlot Jenny presses on him with his fish and chips as a welcome present.

The trip back to the cabin is an awkward one, with Martin’s arms piled high with the shopping. He has to stop every few minutes to readjust his grip and swap one bag or another to a different shoulder, and wishes they had thought to buy a trolley in Aberdeen or Insch.

Jon meets him on the front drive of the cottage, tumbling out the door to ask how he is, how the village was, did anyone ask suspicious questions, did Forsaken try to get him… Martin can hear the loud rumble of the generator at the back of the house, and Jon explains that the battery is charging, but they have power for now, though they probably shouldn’t waste it on anything unnecessary. The rugs are down from the wall beside the bookshelf, making pretty Persian patches in muted blues, browns, and reds in front of the living room hearth and beside the bed. Martin apologises for not being able to find all the spices on the list, but Jon dismisses his worry as they line the successful finds along the counter under the front window. The meat and milk go into the fridge, just beginning to cool, Martin’s new pillowcase joins the bed, and he finally brings up the phone call over the fish and chips, allaying Jon’s worries about Basira and passing on her message.

“We need to look different,” he explains. “I mean, lots of people saw me in the village just now, but my hair’s already different, and much longer than it was when I joined the Institute. Needs a trim anyway, but…”

“You could grow a beard?” Jon suggests, but Martin waves him off with a noise of disgust.

“No thank you,” he says. “Every time I try, it takes forever and only comes through in patches, I don’t think it’d do us any favours. You can, though,” he adds, eyeing the salt-and-pepper stubble on Jon’s chin — “you’re halfway there already.”

Jon agrees to that, but it takes a little more cajoling to get him onside for a haircut; Martin at least wants to get rid of the mullet forming at the nape of his neck. Then Jon takes off his glasses and sighs, turning them over in his hands.

“I don’t actually need these anymore,” he says, “and they’re definitely in my photo.”

Martin frowns down at him. “How long?” he asks carefully. “Since you’ve…”

Jon shrugs, and for a long moment, he doesn’t answer.

“Not since I woke up.”

His voice is making an admirable attempt at steadiness, but it is belied by his averted gaze and shaking fingers. On a sudden, dangerous impulse, Martin reaches out to steady them, holding one hand over both of Jon’s on the table.

“I’m sorry.”

Jon just nods in response. He looks as if he might be seriously contemplating marching to the village and throwing his glasses into the river in a fit of melodrama, so Martin gently prises open his fingers until he lays the glasses on the table.

“You can still wear them around the house,” Martin offers. “You look weird without them to me.”

Jon nods, but he still looks miserable. On a whim, Martin takes his own glasses from his pocket and brandishes them over the table before setting them down next to Jon’s.

“I don’t need mine either, so that’s easy,” he says, and Jon is distracted enough to frown at the instrument in question.

“Really?” he says. “Since when?”

Martin glances at him, trying to judge if he’s being serious, but it’s impossible to tell beyond Jon’s curious frown.

“Since… forever?” he answers. “They’re — they’re fake. I just like how they look.” Jon’s frown only deepens, and a bubble of mirth starts up in Martin’s belly. “Are you — did you really not know that?”

Jon finally looks at him at that, and his offended expression speaks volumes. Martin giggles.

“You _really_ didn’t know?!”

“Well, how was I supposed to?!” Jon counters. “You’re always wearing them, and I’m not juvenile enough to ask to try them on!”

Martin laughs outright in the face of Jon’s consternation, until he calms down enough to pluck his own pair back up and irritably put them on, visibly biting his tongue. Martin can’t keep up the teasing much longer after that, and a cooed reassurance while his hand smooths down the back of Jon’s shoulder is enough to make Jon relax again.

After lunch, Martin is _finally_ able to make a cup of tea. Daisy’s stash is a little stale and crumbly, but still perfectly serviceable, and Martin tries to memorise the way Jon holds his mug between both hands, closing his eyes and inhaling the steam like a breath of the purest air. His first sip comes with an expression of unadulterated enjoyment, quickly smothered, but not before Martin has seen it and tucked it away at the back of his mind.

Then they boil more water and plug the sink, and each give their hair a thorough wash. Jon peers at himself in the bathroom mirror and picks through the damp, messy strands, including a streak of white above his right ear, while Martin leans on the laundry sink and massages conditioner into his hair section by section.

“I haven’t willingly had short hair since Oxford,” Jon grumbles, digging in his fingers and drawing his hair out in long strands to assess its length. “And it’s not like it’s anything near as long as it used to be. I’m fairly certain I already had a bun in my Institute photo.”

“You did,” says Martin, making a twist and moving on to the next section. He’s never had the time to look after his hair as much as he should, and it’s been weeks since he even gave it his usual maintenance, so it feels good to just take the time to look after himself for once. “But you stand out like this. It’s messy.”

“So’s yours,” Jon argues.

“And I’m trimming mine,” Martin counters. “So should you.”

Jon sighs, still angling his head this way and that in the mirror. “It’s just… been so long. I went through all that trouble just to grow it out to _this_ length.”

“If it’s any consolation, you don’t have a weird shaped head or anything.” Martin finishes with a section of hair and moves to one at the front to give his arms a rest. “They shaved it off completely in the hospital, and you looked — I mean, you didn’t look yourself, but you were also sort of dead at the time, so none of you looked right — but it wasn’t horrible or anything.”

Jon turns away from the sink to glare at him. “Martin,” he says flatly, “I’d appreciate it if you _didn’t_ talk about my coma like it was somehow normal.”

Martin shrugs, and doesn’t look at him. Sure, his stomach churns just thinking about it, but he also spent months visiting Jon in hospital, enough to make it a sickeningly ordinary part of his life. It can just be a fact, something he knows in the same way that he knows that the sky is blue and plants need sunlight: Jon didn’t look awful without any hair, apart from how different it was. He pushes away the tightness in his throat.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he finally replies. “Whatever you were dreaming about, we were the ones who mourned you. It _was_ normal.”

He hears all the air leave Jon’s lungs, and silence descends on the room but for the distant roar of the generator.

“Martin…” Jon tries, stepping forward, but he seems to hold himself back from anything more, and sways in place. He licks his lips, voice stuck stuttering in his throat for a moment; before he takes another, more urgent step, and says, “You’re going grey again.”

Martin starts, and looks up. Jon is still visible, restraining his obvious concern.

“I am?” Martin looks down at his hands and feet, but they don’t seem to be any different. “It doesn’t look like it.”

“It starts in your eyes,” says Jon, sounding immeasurably sad. “You’re just — you’re… losing colour. Desaturating, I — I-I don’t know how else to describe it. Maybe only I can see it, maybe it’s just that you can’t.” A single, rueful laugh puffs out of him. “It would make sense that you can’t.”

Martin turns his arms over, examining them with detached interest. “I wonder what’s gone wrong,” he muses, and goes back to his work. Not worth thinking about.

Jon’s voice is soft when he speaks, with careful, bittersweet gentleness.

“Martin, you… Y-you mentioned, about when I was dead.” By the tilt of his head, he is trying to meet Martin’s eye, but he focuses on his hair. It’s nice to take care of himself for once. “Do you… want to talk about it?”

Martin shrugs off the discomfort building on his shoulders. “No,” he says simply. “There’s nothing to talk about. You were dead, and now you’re not.”

_“Martin.”_

The urgent tone of his voice is just enough to snap Martin out of his fog: he looks up, and sees Jon through a mist, and at last his heart gives a jolt. All of a sudden, he recognises the fog and numbness as the threats they are, and it seems unconscionable to just give in to them. He opens his mouth, and waits for the words to come; but how to explain the loss of everything he loved? The gradual, inevitable removal of every support he’d known, even the ones that he himself had placed on which to prop himself up? His safety, his comfort, Sasha — first without his knowledge, and then with awful discovery — Tim, Jon, his mother, even the idea of Elias as the boss he had to evade. How to explain what it was like, to see the man he loved lying motionless, with sensors stuck to his bald head, his skin grey and lifeless and his lungs empty, only his eyes moving restlessly beneath closed lids. How to explain joining Peter…

He’d only wanted to help. To be useful. Surely, he had only had months to live. He might as well have made the most of them, and if it meant working for a different evil than the one he was used to, well, it would just be —

A good way to get killed.

 _I’m crying,_ Martin thinks, feeling the hot, wet tears under his eyes. They drip down his cheeks when he looks down at his hands, too covered in conditioner to be of any use.

Then Jon is holding a fresh flannel to his face, wiping away the tears on one cheek, then another, back and forth, as he murmurs shushing nonsense. _This is the Lonely again,_ Martin tells himself, and gulps down a sob. _You got out once, you can get out again. Just hold onto something — just reach out, and hold on — some words, find the words, find any words, it doesn’t matter if they’re obvious —_

“I missed you so much,” he whispers, over a jolt in his voice. He wants to disappear, to never face this, the monumental weight of a grief he never processed; to never show just how many poor decisions he made, how much importance he stupidly placed on a man who died a hundred miles away from him and came back too late to reverse his suicidal determination.

“I know,” Jon soothes, still pressing the flannel to his cheeks, his face creased with sympathetic pain, close and warm and _alive._ “I’m so sorry.”

Martin pushes back his shame, and the voice at the back of his mind telling him how much easier it would be to just walk away. “You were _dead,”_ he sobs.

“I know, I’m so, so sorry —”

“Shut up, it wasn’t your fault,” Martin returns automatically, not sure if the crack in his voice is from tears or laughter.

“I mean —” Jon looks askance, with a familiar, pedantic tone, “technically, it _was_ my decision to go blow up an evil circus —”

“You were saving the world!” Martin cries, trying to glare at him through the tears.

“In point of fact, according to Gertrude, the entities are too tied up in each other to ever successfully complete a single, focused ritual, so more likely than not, it would have collapsed on it’s own —”

Martin can’t help but roll his eyes. “Oh, shut _up! You_ didn’t know that, if anything, Elia— _Magnus_ probably _did_ but didn’t tell you so you could, I don’t know — go through another spooky crisis as part of his, his — _schemes —”_

“All the more reason, actually —”

_“Jon!”_

He shuts his mouth immediately at Martin’s tone, and has the grace to look abashed at his distractions; fun as it is, bickering about technicalities won’t do much to stop him turning grey in the long run. Sighing through his nose, Martin looks to the floor between them, hands still held awkwardly away from his sides to keep the conditioner off their clothes. Contrite, Jon reaches up again to brush away the next wave of tears.

“I missed you,” Martin says again, forcing himself not to wince at the hoarseness of his voice. With an immense effort, he raises his eyes to meet Jon’s, where the glow of the Watcher has receded but still resides in a thin ring around his irises. “You died, and I missed you, and I lost — everything, and — and I thought I was going to die too. It was awful. I kept visiting, and nothing changed, and you looked… _awful.”_ He sniffs and swallows, but he knows it won’t do much, and as he talks, the tears gradually take over, slurring and stealing his coherence.

“It hurt so much. I don’t know what else to say, but — it hurt so much to see you like that. And no, it _wasn’t_ your fault, but — but you can’t even know — h-having you back is like — it’s like a miracle that I never actually accepted. I th-thought Peter was going to kill me, so I nev— I never let myself think about it, I just — you were back, and I needed to protect you so — s-so it never happened again, I needed to — to not — c-connect, s— so you wouldn’t have to mourn, so _I_ wouldn’t have to — m-m-mourn again, I — didn’t w-want to lose you again, I _don’t_ want to lose you again —”

Jon tosses the flannel aside at that, dropping it on the sink behind Martin and rising up on his toes to wrap his arms around him. He doesn’t speak for many minutes, just makes soothing noises and lets Martin cry into his shoulder, cupping one hand around the back of his neck and flattening the other between his shoulders. For his part, Martin mentally kicks at the shadow of Peter Lukas that has long since come to embody all his very worst impulses, and tells himself over and over that this is not weakness, that Jon will not hate him, that he doesn’t have to be strong, or useful, or perfectly pure to be worthy of this embrace. He presses his forearms against Jon’s sides instead of his messy hands, and refuses to be embarrassed about getting Jon’s collar and shirt damp with his snot.

“I’m so sorry, Martin,” Jon eventually breathes by his ear, his own voice sounding strained with emotion. “I’m so sorry for what happened. It’s behind us now. We have to look forward. And I promise you, I will never — I will do everything, everything I can, to never leave you. Not — that is, obviously, not unless you want me to, I just — I just mean, I — I won’t let that happen to you again. Not ever. Not if I have any choice in the matter.”

It’s an empty promise, of course. No one can conjure safety, or miracles. But it’s the thought that counts, and as the comfort of the words soaks through Martin, he sniffles against Jon’s shoulder, and turns his head outwards so he can speak again, however scratchy and forced it sounds. It’s all out now: he’s spoken his grief and he’s still here, and Jon hasn’t left, and they still have a life to get on with.

“I should probably finish with my hair so we can get a start on yours.”

Jon shakes with a nearly-silent chuckle underneath him, and Martin smiles in answer even though Jon can’t see it. Maybe the rings around his eyes will let him know that it’s happening.

“Do you have _any_ experience with clippers?” Jon asks, false distrust layered unconvincingly over the tightness at the back of his throat.

“I’ve cut my own hair for years, thank you,” Martin says to the wall. “If I can handle an afro, I can handle the limp mop you call hair.”

That, at last, makes Jon draw back with an offended-sounding, “Hey!”, and Martin giggles, and sniffs, and looks around for the flannel.

“I’m gross,” he says, as an apology for expecting Jon to wipe away his snot and tears. Jon just plucks up the flannel, shakes it out, and mildly sets to his work.

“I don’t mind.”

After that, it doesn’t seem all that radical, once Martin’s done conditioning, to drag a chair into the bathroom, sit Jon down, and carefully cut his hair for him. Folding down his ears or tipping his head forward for a better angle is nothing when Martin’s tears are still drying on the man’s shirt. He uses the scissors in Jenny’s shoebox to cut off the worst of the mullet, then shaves down the dregs in layers going up, and trims the top as best he can while trying to imitate what he’s seen hairdressers do on the telly. The end result is perfectly passable: he’s achieved something closer to an undercut than a fade, but the top still has some length to it, flopping over Jon’s forehead with no unsightly irregularities. At this length, the heavy streaks of grey at his temples and the spot of white above his ear are less noticeable, while the locks on the top of his head look even more charming than usual.

Jon stands and leans close to the mirror to inspect the results as Martin brushes off the clippers and puts the equipment away.

“Well,” Jon mumbles, “it’s… certainly different. I’m not sure _I_ recognise myself.”

“I think you look good with short hair,” Martin says, fighting a blush. “It’s very, I dunno — _masculine.”_

“I’m not sure that’s exactly what I’m going for,” Jon drawls, pinching the longer hair on top in tufts, then running his palm up and down the shaved back. “Oh, I _definitely_ don’t like that. That is…”

Martin’s shoulders sag. “I’m sorry,” he says, “but it had to be done. Like you said — you’re hardly recognisable like this. That was kind of the point.”

“I know,” Jon sighs, still running his hand back and forth, getting little barbs of clipped hair stuck to his skin. “I guess it’ll grow back.”

“That’s the spirit.”

At last, Jon gives up on the mirror, and wets the towel around his shoulders. “But you said you liked it?” he asks, muffled, as he hunches over and rubs the towel over his head to get rid of the detritus. Martin’s face goes properly hot.

“W-well,” he stammers, “I just meant — y-you know, objectively, it’s not bad on you. I mean, ob- _obviously_ you should wear your hair how you like it, and you looked good — I mean, long hair suited you too, and if you prefer it that way — I just mean — I mean, _objectively,_ it looks okay, you don’t look weird or anything.”

 _“Objectively,”_ Jon repeats, glancing aside but not quite looking over his shoulder at Martin. Martin nods determinedly at the curve of his back.

“Objectively.”

Jon hangs around while Martin cuts his own hair, sitting on the edge of the tub and asking about hair care as Martin takes each twist and gradually combs it out, then trims a few careful inches from the ends. It turns out that he left his afro pick in London in their rush to leave, but he makes do with his fingers until his hair settles into a neat halo of unnatural white. Like Jon, he leans close to the mirror, poking not at his hair but at his white eyelashes and pale stubble, standing out so starkly against his skin.

“Does it look weird?” he says, to the mirror but also to the room at large, running the pads of his fingers over his eyebrows. “It looks weird, doesn’t it?”

“I mean, it isn’t a _natural_ colour,” says Jon as he stands and joins Martin at the sink. He reaches out, hesitating just long enough for Martin to clock his intentions and say, “You’re good,” before he takes a tuft of Martin’s hair and runs it between his fingers, examining how the light bounces off the faded strands. Or rather, _doesn’t_ bounce off them: having thoroughly handled his hair, Martin knows it is far from dead, but the bleach of the Lonely has left it with a lifeless quality to the eye, unreactive to the world around it.

Jon’s eyes are roaming now, over Martin’s face. “I think it looks good,” he muses, and fixes his gaze on the lock of Martin’s hair between his fingers as he adds — “Objectively.”

Martin is certain he is holding his breath. He’s also certain that he’s staring at Jon’s reflection, standing, it turns out, _very_ close to him, almost shoulder to shoulder, his wrist nearly touching Martin’s neck. Silently, Jon rolls his fingers, feeling the texture of Martin’s hair, and then holds still for a long, long moment. Martin is unsure if the tremble he feels is in Jon’s chest, or his own.

Then Jon clicks his tongue and lets go, pushing off from the sink and mumbling, “I’d better turn off the generator.” He leaves Martin to sweep up the hair on the floor, happy to have an excuse to avoid Jon’s eyes for a little while longer.

Jon makes spicy chicken on rice for dinner. It’s surprisingly good, and Martin tries not to feel bad about the fact that he barely knows how to do more than scramble eggs and heat up ready meals. After all, if this is going to be their life for the foreseeable future, Jon can cook well enough for the two of them, and seems to take genuine pleasure in it.

After they eat and clear up, and have boiled one last kettleful of water for tea and the new hot water bottle, Jon and Martin switch off the power and sit on the squashy, off-green sofa, reading by the light of a few candles. Jon decides to work through the medical textbooks as the least unpromising of Daisy’s collection, while Martin — after spending an hour holding a pen poised over one of his notebooks, unable to think of a single word to write — takes down the Emily Dickinson collection. Her style seems alien to him, neither cohesive enough to be like the old Romantics, nor fragmented and un-rhyming in the modernist ways he is used to, but God, does the poetry thrill through him. The dashes and disjoints and three-word lines crawl under his skin, and even if he doesn’t quite understand them, the shining bursts of feeling have meaning enough on their own.

They go to bed early again, not yet fully recovered after everything, with Jon still compulsively running his hand through his shorn hair. Martin’s breath goes thin again as Jon locks the bedroom door behind them, and he wonders if the nervousness of sharing a bed with this man will ever diminish; hopes against hope that it will soon diminish. They don’t know for how long they’ll have to do this, after all. It could be weeks, even months, and Martin isn’t sure that his heart is cut out for this level of tension every night for as long as that.

“Lie on your back,” Jon whispers into the dark as they settle, and Martin obeys, until they are back where they were the night before, with Jon’s hand curved over Martin’s shoulder and sending a wave of safety and contentment through him to fight back the fog. A few more nights, and perhaps this will become an absent habit, mundane and routine and not at all exhilarating.

He drops off quickly again, but before he can dream, Martin is awake again, in the absolute dead of night, drawn out by something or nothing. He is still on his back, but Jon’s hand is gone, and maybe it was that which woke him, or maybe that happened two hours ago and has nothing to do with it. He shuffles around to find out.

Instead of peacefully asleep, Jon is twisted on his side, limbs almost contorted, fists clenched, brow drawn down, as the glow of his eyes twitches and trembles behind his lids. The sweat is standing out on his face and neck, and he looks like he’s in terrible pain, though from what, Martin couldn’t say. Surely he was having these same nightmares last night — he only ever dreams the same things, doesn’t he? The same victims? — so what could have changed remains a mystery.

 _It’s something to do with the Eye,_ says an instinct in Martin’s mind. _Just roll over, and go back to sleep. There’s nothing you can do to help._

Unfortunately for that instinct, it forgot to smother Martin’s vivid memories of Jon’s hands on him in comfort while he cried, and with a great effort, he realises that perhaps he might be able to give such comfort in return. And even if he can’t, well — that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t try. Right?

Martin pulls his left hand out from under the covers and reaches out, slipping his fingers over one of Jon’s fists.

“Jon?” he breathes into the night, unbroken but for Jon’s shivering, and his breath coming harsh through gritted teeth. Martin may well be powerless here, but God damn it, he will _try._

He drags himself closer, takes Jon’s fist in his other hand, and smooths back the freshly-cut hair from Jon’s damp brow, raising his voice dangerously above a whisper.

“Jon, wake up.”

A sound escapes from Jon’s throat and behind his bared teeth, something small and tortured, as he squirms in place, neck twisting and arms straining against the bed. Jon is suffering, and something inside Martin snaps.

He raises himself onto his elbow, takes the side of Jon’s face firmly in hand, and shouts, _“Jon!”_

The man snaps awake beneath him in an instant, and for three seconds, his eyes are nothing but bright, green discs, half-blinding and uncanny, warped in Martin’s head to look far too big for his face and pinning him in place like a butterfly in a case. Then Jon blinks, and his breath comes gasping back to him, and Martin is released.

“You were dreaming,” he says, dropping back to a whisper as his heart races and Jon’s body finally relaxes. Jon glances around, at the shadow-drenched hearth, the faintly moonlit window above them, the space under Martin’s chest as he shifts on his arm. The green has retreated to his irises, and dulled to an incipient glow rather than a shining light, but it is still so much bigger than Martin has seen it, engulfing the dark gaze that he is used to.

“You were dreaming,” Martin repeats, and pushes Jon’s hair back again, trying to get him to meet his eye. “You looked — it looked bad. Are you all right?”

Jon is shaking his head, tears springing up, and Martin’s heart breaks for him. Jon never asked for this — none of them asked for this — and now he spends his nights as an unwilling voyeur to other people’s terrors, unable to stop himself from enjoying it.

“Oh, God —” Martin breathes in a rush, then, “Come here,” and he folds himself back down onto the mattress and pulls Jon into his arms, mentally shoving at the voice screaming at him for crossing some sort of unspoken line, for exposing himself to ridicule and rejection. That voice is immediately proved wrong, anyway: Jon freely shoves himself closer, pressing his face to Martin’s shoulder as near-silent sobs tear through him. All words of comfort have flown from Martin’s head; but he pulls Jon in, and wriggles enough that he can support Jon’s head while wrapping both arms around him. Avatars and entities and cosmic nightmares can get fucked, as far as he’s concerned; here, they are just people, two solid bodies holding on to each other, heavy with muscle and fat and skin, crying and breathing and pumping blood against all the odds. Their knees are knocking, legs thrown awkwardly together, and that only serves to emphasise Martin’s point.

How anyone can look at this small, scarred, frightened man, and see an inhuman threat, is utterly beyond him.

Jon cries for a long time, long enough that the night wraps them up and Martin begins to doze, vaguely stroking his thumbs over Jon’s spine and through the bristles at the back of his head. As his tears run out and his breathing slows, Jon relaxes in increments, and wipes his nose on Martin’s t-shirt, then his own sleeve. Martin half-consciously decides that that’s enough snot got on each other for a couple of days, at least.

Finally, Jon pushes back off Martin’s arm, and Martin blinks his way back to awareness.

“Sorry,” Jon whispers to the darkness. Martin snorts a laugh.

“You apologise too much,” he says; then, feeling bold in the clinging remnants of sleep, he adds, “You don’t have to leave, you know.”

“Leave?” Jon echoes from the other side of the mattress: a short distance, but a distance nonetheless.

“I don’t mind,” Martin mumbles, letting his arm flop out towards Jon in invitation. “I mean, you’ve hugged me enough the last few days, it’s only fair I return the favour.”

“Martin,” Jon sighs, “this is different.”

“No s’not.” He wiggles his fingers in invitation. “You were having a rough time, I don’t want it to happen again. You can tell yourself you’re doing _me_ a favour, if that helps — it’s probably right, too.”

“You've felt Lonely again tonight?” says Jon quietly, even as he crawls back in and lowers his head to Martin’s arm, settling the covers more comfortably over them.

“Not really,” says Martin, draping his free arm over Jon’s shoulder again. “But then, I’m the worst judge of when it’s coming. Better safe than sorry, hm?”

Jon laughs at that, short and quiet, and loosens in Martin’s embrace, curling in towards the swells and curves of his body, his bundled arms pressing against Martin’s belly and chest. Martin tries not to think about how comfortable it feels to hold Jon like this: he wants to never let go, wants to do this every night for the rest of his life, wants to soothe and protect Jon from the world and from himself just as Jon has done for him. He wants the humble pleasure of cuddling with this bony, scarred man as they drift off, the presence of the man he loves, the reassurance that he is loved in turn. Too tired for self-flagellation, he does not dwell on the imbalance in those loves, hasn’t got the energy to feel sad about his hopeless pining. In the moment, it feels reciprocated, a simple exchange of affection with the hard edges and complications filed away by drowsiness and the consolation of night-time, only the faintest moonlight highlighting their edges, leaving the rest out of sight. Jon sighs, and Martin feels his breath gust out against his collar.

His last thought is that he is absolutely going to regret this in the morning, and that — for the moment — he really doesn’t care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me at [@cuddlytogas](https://cuddlytogas.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Jon learns about testosterone shots, Martin reads Emily Dickinson, an argument is had, and proximity makes the heart grow fonder.

Martin wakes when Jon climbs off him, easing himself quietly away and into the dim, dawn chill to use the toilet. He rolls over to the wall, and is asleep again in minutes.

Later, they breakfast on milky tea and creamy porridge with honey, indulging in their newfound access to electricity and perishable food, and pointedly not mentioning the incident during the night. It’s agreed that they both need a proper wash, but it turns out the project of having a bath in the cottage takes half the morning: boiling enough water to warm even one full bath takes multiple trips with the kettle and a lot of trial and error, until it feels like pure indulgence that they’re not simply sharing bathwater. Martin lets Jon go first and chops some more wood while he does, getting in one last gross activity before he gets to finally wash off the crust of dirt and sweat from days of chores and travel. He wishes he’d known, at six AM in the hotel at Insch, that it would be his last shower for the foreseeable; he would’ve taken the time to enjoy it a bit more.

Nevertheless, it’s good timing. Every second Saturday is T-shot day for Martin, and he prefers to be clean and warm for the occasion. The only decent light in the cabin is in the front room, so Martin asks if it would make Jon uncomfortable if he did the injection there. Jon stares for a long moment from behind his book, then violently shakes his head, saying nothing. Martin takes that as assent, and strips to his boxer briefs before carrying a chair into the kitchen, forcing himself to pretend that this is normal. He’s not exactly in the habit of parading around with no trousers on in company, but well, needs must, and again: they have no idea how long they’ll be here for, how many times Jon will be around for T-day, how intimate they will have to become with each other’s habits. Not that it’s a burden to learn the ways that Jon holds himself in private, and it’s only polite to return the mortifying favour; but that doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable.

As he lays out his things, Martin catches Jon watching him more than once, dark eyes following his movements and then darting down again whenever he is caught out. Martin has never shared this with anyone other than his GP: he kept it away from his mother when they lived together, and never had any serious enough relationships since starting that he couldn’t just rearrange his schedule around it. Even when he was living in the archives, the occasions that Jon was at work on a Saturday were uncommon (though they  _ should _ have been  _ never _ ), and it wasn’t hard to find a few minutes alone in the toilet or document storage. He doesn’t particularly  _ want _ to share it, either. It cuts to the heart of him, this routine confrontation with gender, and he has learnt from experience that, however much a cis person seems accepting of his maleness, it’s another thing entirely when they’re confronted with the reality of the process. Moreover, it’s an exposing affair, with prescriptions and injections, and baring a part of his body he’s uncertain of, chunky and mottled with cellulite and stretch marks.

Except… well, Jon loves him, that much he knows. It’s not like he hasn’t already bared his insecurities to the man, and he’s still here, willingly sharing space with him even within the restrictions of being on the run together. And there’s nothing quite like the intense look of wonder on Jon’s face when he gets to learn something new.

“You can come over here, you know,” says Martin, faking nonchalance, as he finds a large jar under the sink to use instead of a sharps bin. No doubt it’s incredibly unsanitary, but it’s the best he’s going to get.

Across the room, Jon gives up entirely on his ruse of reading up on the gallbladder.

“Are you sure?” he says, his wide, riveted eyes saying something more like  _ Yes please, yes please, tell me everything!! _ “I — I wouldn’t want to intrude on anything…”

“It’s fine, honestly,” Martin laughs. “Anyway, who knows how long we’re going to be living together. You might have to see this pretty often.”

Seconds later, the book is on the floor and Jon is in the kitchen, hovering near the counter.

“How often do you have to do it?” he asks, then shakes his head and adds, “Wait, more importantly — are you going to be able to get more when you run out? Do you have enough for the next few weeks?”

Martin, busying himself with alcohol wipes and finding the right place on his thigh, grins to himself, trying not to shake too much with laughter.

“Okay, in order,” he says, with a quick glance at Jon — “fortnightly; I’ve got my prescription but it could probably be used to trace us so I’m trying not to think about it; and yeah? We got lucky, this bottle’s pretty recent. I’ll need more needles and stuff sooner than that.”

Jon cocks his head to one side, following how Martin upends the bottle and fills the syringe. “How long have you been doing it?”

“Um — I started on T a little after the Institute?” Martin taps the syringe a few times to get rid of any air. “I didn’t have time to even think about transitioning before I had a full time job, and then I had to talk to my GP, and get a referral, and it took forever to actually get an appointment at the GIC…” He pinches his leg, positions the needle, and catches Jon’s eye. “You sure you want to watch this?”

Jon shrugs, grimacing slightly. “I mean, it’s not  _ pleasant,  _ but I don’t have any particular problem with needles,” he says. “I’m just interested, that’s all.”

“Creep,” Martin chuckles fondly. “Okay, here we go. Three, two, one —”

He bites his tongue and scrunches up his face during the actual injection as usual, carefully regulating his breathing. Needle in, pull up — no blood — and push down…

“Oh God,” Jon winces, then more passionately — “Oh,  _ God,  _ does it take this long every time?!”

Martin’s a little busy trying to force his leg to relax, and gritting his teeth through the discomfort, but he forces out a, “Y-yep, it’s a pretty big shot,” in answer. At last, it’s done, and he draws out the needle and expels a heavy breath at the same time as Jon, suppressing a shudder.

“Why did you —” Jon gestures with his fingers as Martin dumps the needle and fiddles with a band-aid. “You pulled back the plunger for a bit before injecting,” Jon tries again, “why?”

“Got to make sure it’s in the right place?” Martin explains. “It goes into the muscle, so if you pull up and there’s blood in the syringe, you know you’ve got a vein and need to find a new place.”

Jon cringes. “Eugh.”

“Yep, basically.” Martin seals the sharps jar and starts to pack away his things, shaking out his leg as he stands. “Anyway, I didn’t actually start HRT until I was, I think… twenty-four-ish? Something like that. And it took a year or so before I started doing it myself, so — five, six years?”

_ “Fascinating.” _

Martin giggles at that — at the full, intense weight of Jon’s scrutiny falling on something that’s become so ordinary to him — and Jon has enough humility to look slightly embarrassed as Martin goes to put his kit away and get his jeans back on.

“Sorry,” Jon continues from the kitchen, “I just — it’s interesting, and Google can only give you so much information, and it can’t tell me about  _ your _ experience, but it — it always felt a bit intrusive to just ask.”

“It  _ would’ve _ been intrusive, yeah,” Martin agrees, buttoning his fly. “Especially since we basically never hung out outside of work. Weird place to ask about your co-worker’s hormones.”

Jon snorts a laugh to himself as Martin joins him again, settling back onto the sofa with his textbook.

“Still,” Martin goes on, “I don’t mind now. We are living together and all.” His chest seizes up as he hears the words come out of his mouth. “I just mean, y’know, under the circumstances,” he hurries to add, “you’ll probably have to see it more than once, and I don’t mind! You’re my — you know, we’re not just — co-workers, anymore…”

The steam runs out of him at last, and he trails off, only then noticing the tentative smile Jon is sending him from behind his book. He really hopes it’s not a trick of the light making it look like Jon is biting the inside of his lip.

“Thank you for sharing with me,” says Jon, a deliberate choice of words, in the same quiet, gentle voice he used in the Lonely and when Martin had his breakdown in the bathroom over handfuls of hair conditioner. It hits Martin like a punch to the chest, and he never wants him to stop. “Thank you for trusting me.”

Martin wants to shrug it off — God, he wants to shrug it off so badly, give a little laugh and let it all stay as unspoken as possible in the face of Jon’s frankness — but that would be detrimental to… well, everything. Martin swallows, and licks his lips, and tries to find the right words with the same slow, easy intention with which Jon seems to find his.

“O-of course,” he says, instead of anything useful or profound. In compensation, he lets himself match Jon’s understated smile. “Of course I trust you.”

The silence is thick and heavy between them, and unless Martin’s letting his imagination run away with him, he’s fairly sure he can see a flush blooming at the tips of Jon’s ears, while the man holds himself suspiciously still. Martin clears his throat.

“Well,” he says with a little sigh. “Um — tea?”

They drink sweet, steaming tea, and visit the shed to figure out what schedule suits the generator best without using too much fuel. Martin muses out loud that Daisy probably should have invested in some solar panels, bringing a bubble of surprised laughter spilling out from Jon’s lips. Martin wants to make that happen again and again until the end of his days.

He also wants to wash the windows. Maybe in a few days, he thinks, watching a bank of pale clouds starting to roll in from the mountains as they take the long way around the wild banks of greenery and scattered flowers in front of the cottage.

_ And gardening, _ Martin notes in his head.  _ We should think about gardening —  _ followed by a mental slap, and a reminder that  _ This is not some kind of forever home! _ , even as he eyes the languid slope of Jon’s shoulders entering the house ahead of him. He tries to think of another time he’s seen Jon so relaxed, and cannot come up with a single example. It suits him all too well.

Instead of either of these tasks, they while away the rest of the afternoon with their books, as Martin’s beginning to suspect will be the norm. In a gesture of bull-headed optimism, Martin keeps a notebook and pen open on the coffee table, even though he’s fairly sure he will only be  _ reading _ poetry for a good while yet.

And although the couch is not wide, Jon and Martin keep a respectful distance between themselves, each taking an arm and a far end for themselves. Jon moves around a lot while he reads, constantly rearranging his legs and adjusting how his head is leaning, and every time he unfolds enough to send a foot brushing a little too close to Martin’s comfortable curl, he apologises under his breath without looking up from the page, oblivious to the way the almost-touches cause a tiny hitch in Martin’s heartbeat.

_ You are an  _ adult,  _ Martin Blackwood, _ he tells himself sternly, refocusing on Emily Dickinson.  _ You cannot get worked up just because your crush might accidentally touch you. _

But it keeps happening, however juvenile. Martin determines to get used to it.

With warm, afternoon light flooding through the front windows, and the thought at the back of his mind that they might want to light a fire tonight, Martin reaches a poem that finds a gap in his ribs and burrows in, making him hold his breath as he reads and expel it all in one when he finishes. By some miracle, Jon doesn’t notice, too caught up in glaring at a list of illustrations, and Martin reads the three short stanzas over and over, trying to memorise at least the shape of them. He wants to show it to Jon, but…

No. That would be a bit much. Right?

Jon gets up to make dinner, then, frowning as Martin leans over to grab his notebook and rip out a page.

“What are you doing?” Jon asks, halfway through stretching out his back.

“Just making a couple bookmarks,” Martin explains, carefully tearing the paper in half and folding each half into long, neat rectangles. Jon shrugs at him.

“Just fold the corner.”

Martin gapes at his back as he heads into the kitchen.

“I don’t dog-ear books, Jon.”

“Why not?”

For a few seconds, Martin is so shocked and incensed that his voice gets stuck in his throat, stuttering out nonsense sounds until he can get control of himself.

“They’re not even  _ my _ books!” is what he first lands on, but Jon just snorts a laugh.

“Daisy wouldn’t care.”

“It doesn’t matter if she’d care,” Martin counters,  _ “I  _ would! Books are important!”

“No they’re not?” says Jon, as he calmly arranges vegetables on the counter. His disinterest is probably getting Martin as riled up as his opinions, but right now, Martin doesn’t have the brain space to consider that. “They’re mass-produced, Martin, they’re hardly one-of-a-kind early modern artefacts.”

“So?! They’re still special!”

“I’m not denying that books are  _ special,” _ says Jon, rolling his eyes. “I’m just saying, you don’t need to be precious about them. After all, what’s more indicative of how important a book is to someone than that they felt compelled to leave their mark on it?”

“Looking after it!” Martin cries. He can tell that Jon is laughing at him, however silently, with a twinkle in his eye and a smirk hidden in the corner of his mouth.

“They’re just things,” Jon argues, exactly pushing Martin’s buttons.

“They’re still special!”

“I’m not saying they’re not!” Jon’s voice is muffled for a moment as he digs around in the pantry for the lentils. “But that attitude is like not using the fine china. There’s no point buying a book just to preserve it in amber and show it off. Anyway, what do you care? I’ve seen your flat,” he adds, returning to the counter — “I could count the number of books you own on one hand.”

“Okay, first of all, not true,” Martin snaps, brandishing the Dickinson at Jon across the room. “Second of all, just because I don’t have some kind of  _ Beauty and the Beast  _ library —”

“Some kind of  _ what?” _

“— doesn’t mean I don’t get to have an opinion!”

“Look, library books I understand,” Jon shrugs, still pottering disinterestedly around the kitchen. “But if you already own it, why  _ not _ leave your mark on it? Surely the highest compliment one can give to a book is to enjoy it so much you feel compelled to respond to it. You fold the corner because you’d rather hold your place than lose another bookmark.”

“No.”

“You crack the spine because you’d rather read it one-handed on the Tube than put it down for ten more minutes. You highlight your favourite passages —”

_ “No!” _

“— and write in the margins because you don’t want to lose your momentum trying to find a notepad. An untouched book is one no one’s ever cared about.”

At the back of his mind, it occurs to Martin how lovely it is to see Jon argue calmly and passionately about something as mundane as  _ books. _ Not potentially-supernatural encounters, not murder conspiracies, not world-ending circuses or their evil boss, not even spooky books that eat people — just books.

At the front of mind, he is absolutely offended by the lack of care shown to a precious collection of knowledge, an expression of a soul put into physical form, an example of one of the most important pieces of technology ever to affect human civilisation.

“You’re horrifying,” he says. “You know that?”

Jon just shrugs at him, and keeps peeling the onion in his hands. “I guess Basira’s right,” he says flatly — “I really am a monster.”

White-hot fury burns through Martin at that, entirely different to his annoyance at the petty argument. He drops the book to the sofa and pushes to his feet, fists clenched at his sides.

“Don’t say that.”

Jon glances up at him, and after a full second, he gives a sigh that sounds a bit like a laugh, brows drawing down into an expression of smiling pity.

“I’m joking,” he says, but Martin overrides him.

“Well it isn’t funny,” he insists, taking three steps across the room. “Don’t say it, not even as a joke.”

“I’m just saying —”

_ “No,  _ you’re  _ not,” _ Martin interrupts, fury translating now to sorrow. “I know how you think, I know how you’ve been, so you don’t ever — get — to say it. You are  _ not _ a monster. You are a human being who’s been traumatised, and — and manipulated, and it doesn’t matter how horrible and backwards your opinions are about how to treat books, you’re not allowed to talk about yourself like that.  _ Ever.  _ Is that clear?”

From one step up in the kitchen, Jon is about as tall as Martin, and he meets his gaze over the counter wide-eyed and silent, so shocked by Martin’s protective outburst that his hands have stilled on the onion. After a moment, the embarrassment starts to creep in on Martin, spreading across his face in a flush, but he clenches his jaw and stands his ground, holding Jon’s gaze. His eyes are dark and familiar, but their tilt of helpless astonishment is not, ringed by only a sliver of green so faint that Martin wouldn’t have noticed it if he wasn’t already looking for it.

“All right,” Jon finally says, very quietly, his voice deep and hoarse like it’s been dragged up from the depths of his being. He swallows, hard, and Martin bites his tongue rather than let himself back down now. “Okay.” And Jon drops his gaze to his hands, where his grip on the onion adjusts, and — are those tears in his eyes? “Thank you, Martin.”

The defiance in Martin’s spine snaps at that, at Jon’s low, rough tone and fidgeting thumbs, and he crosses the rest of the room. From the wrong side, the counter barely comes up to his chest, and he leans his crossed arms on it and lets his breath out slowly through his nose.

“Sorry,” he mutters, “I just — I don’t like it when you do that.”

“Do what?” Jon asks the onion.

“Put yourself down,” Martin sighs. “Blame yourself.” The urge to take Jon’s hands is almost overwhelming. Almost. “You’re not exactly Magnus, are you? Or — or Peter, or Simon, or Jude Perry, or any of them. They just wanted power, but you didn’t even choose this.”

“I did though,” says Jon, putting down the onion so he can rest both hands on the counter, shoulders hunching. “I made the decision to come back.”

_ “You —”  _ Martin stops himself before he can get into another outburst. “You can’t tell me you knew what you were choosing.”

“I did,” Jon repeats. “I chose life instead of death in the full understanding that it meant picking a side. Aligning with the Eye, it — I knew what I was doing.”

Martin can’t stop the snort of mirthless laughter that escapes him. “No you  _ didn’t,” _ he drawls. “Okay, maybe you knew you were picking the Eye, but you can’t tell me you knew it’d mean needing statements to live, or knowing things without meaning to, or attacking strangers. Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” he adds quickly, seeing the way Jon is opening his mouth to respond. “You weren’t given the choice in a vacuum. Elias has been gr—  _ Magnus,  _ has been grooming you for this for years.  _ He  _ made you Head Archivist, he told you to record statements, he sent you out after the avatars and the Circus without knowing the dangers. If he hadn’t done that, you never would’ve had to make the choice at all.”

“Yes, but he chose me for a reason,” Jon counters, joyless to the point of cruelty. “He knew I was already touched by the Web, he knew I wouldn’t be able to stop until I figured out the puzzle, he knew —”

“Oh, what, so now being  _ curious _ is a crime?” Martin snaps. “Wanting to understand the creepy things that keep hurting you, that’s a reason to blame yourself for all that suffering and call yourself a monster? Shut up.”

“I  _ am _ a monster,” Jon sighs, not defiant or even hateful, only long-suffering: resigned to his fate. In a momentary fit, Martin smacks his open palm on the counter, making Jon flinch.

“You are  _ not!” _ he shouts. “You’re a good person!”

“I hurt people,” Jon grits out.

“Which no one on earth has ever done before, so now you’re cancelled forever, go to jail, do not pass go.” Martin is fully aware that he’s close to ranting, but he doesn’t care. This is so much more important than his dignity, more important than books and dal and moral philosophy. “You were called out, and you stopped. You’re trying to be better. You do good things — you saved Daisy, and Melanie, you tried to save Tim, you tried to avenge Sasha —”

“And look how well those things went.”

“It doesn’t  _ matter _ how well they went! You can’t control everything! What matters is that you  _ tried, _ that you keep trying! And you  _ do _ keep trying! We’re here, aren’t we?! You’re not sitting in the Panopticon body-hopping and trying to rule the world, you’re  _ here! _ That’s not nothing!”

Jon shuts his eyes, leaning more heavily on his hands. “It’s not going to last,” he croaks out, then snaps open his eyes to meet Martin’s, steely and wretched. “I made my choice, I can’t live without the Eye, you were  _ right. _ If I tried to cut myself off now — I’d probably just die. It’s that, or go like Daisy. I  _ can’t _ be good anymore, it’s not an  _ option.” _

“Jon,” Martin growls, “if you even start to  _ think _ that you should’ve made a different choice…”

His throat closes up at that. He can’t finish the thought, can’t fathom the idea of never having gotten Jon back. It doesn’t take a whole lot of imagination to guess what would have happened: Daisy would have stayed trapped in the coffin, and Melanie would have succumbed to her anger and the violence being pumped into her, would have hurt people, probably tried to kill them all. Elias would have picked a new Head Archivist: Basira, most likely, as Martin would have given himself up to Forsaken by that point, would have stopped feeling anything at all and faded into nothing to feed Peter Lukas’s god.

Martin swallows against the tears constricting his windpipe. They all would have suffered, and died, and none of it would have achieved a thing.

He’s been quiet for too long, and Jon is staring at him with the dawning horror of knowing he’s done something wrong. Martin will not give him another excuse to hate himself.

“You’re being good,” he forces out through his stiff jaw and tight throat. “And we’re going to keep trying. No matter what happens, we will keep trying, and making the right decisions. Otherwise —” He shrugs, trying to imbue the gesture with every ounce of the refusal to submit that he has been scrambling to hold onto for all these months. “Otherwise they win.”

He holds Jon’s gaze, trying and failing to decipher the thoughts going on behind those intelligent eyes. At last, Jon breathes deeply, and a watery smile creeps onto his mouth, and Martin tastes his victory as if he had kissed it from Jon’s lips.

“You really are…” Jon starts, then ducks his head, laughing at himself. “You’re never going to let that happen, are you?” he breathes in wonderment, eyes back on Martin’s face like he doesn’t want to look away for too long. “You really aren’t.”

Martin’s heart is squirming under Jon’s scrutiny, but he refuses to succumb to it, to the pining hope that Jon  _ wants _ to look at his face, the wish that he could be not just understood, but reciprocated, the fantasy that Jon would want to kiss him as much as Martin wants the same. This is enough. This is  _ going  _ to be enough.

“Damn right I’m not,” he mumbles, and at last, gives in to his own weakness. He looks away, at the onion on the chopping board between Jon’s hands. “Do you want a hand with the cooking?”

Jon doesn’t answer at once, just keeps looking at him as if uncomprehending, as if, should he look long enough, he might be able to answer some deep secret of the universe. Martin doesn’t know what mysteries he might be able to unlock, but if Jon thinks he could be useful, who is he to deny that curious soul?

“Yes,” Jon says eventually, in a remarkable imitation of normality. “Could you cut up the tomatoes?”

Jon makes fresh roti, and dal that is rich and spicy despite his grumbling at the lack of fresh curry leaves in Bellabeg. He protests about Martin doing the washing up, but doesn’t have any real arguments, and settles for drying the pots and pans in a silence which starts out sulky but soon becomes comfortable and warm.

He is also, it turns out, the first person to fart in bed. He mumbles an apology, and Martin, half-asleep, can’t muster the energy to do more than laugh at him and return fire. It is absolutely disgusting, and he falls asleep delighted to have drawn the exalted Archivist down to such depths of human impropriety.

Martin was right about the clouds. It rains steadily for two days, taking all hopes of window-washing out of his head and replacing them with the nearly-cloying experience of two days spent entirely in close proximity with Jon. Not that they don’t get along — Martin is an experienced defuser of arguments, and Jon’s stubborn insistence on being right all the time has mellowed since he started at the Archives — but as they settle into their new routines in the cottage, Martin is able to relax enough that he circles back around to being on edge. The days pass, and there is no sign of Julia or Trevor, or Daisy, or the Sasha thing, and when Martin goes into town on Monday with his coat on and hood up against the rain to restock on eggs and milk and buy a pair of wellies for Jon, he doesn’t see a single police car or uniform, nor even a suspicious face or a pair of footsteps shadowing his own.

In safety, however, he is all but forced to refocus on Jon. Jon whom he has pined after for two years, Jon whom he fell in love with, Jon who walked into the Lonely to save him, Jon who loves him, loves him, loves him, but not possibly in  _ that way. _ Martin has long since given up hope for that — never had much hope at all — but that only makes his constant presence worse. He so desperately doesn’t want to make things awkward, and the knowledge that Jon probably wouldn’t care, and certainly wouldn’t make a big deal out of it, can’t entirely bury that fear. After all, if he ruined things, it’s not like they’d be able to get some space from each other: they’d still have to live in the cabin together, still have to cook and clean and read together, still have to share the same bed. (Would they? Or would Jon move to the sofa as he first intended?)

The fear leaves a tension in Martin’s life that lurks around corners, waiting for a lull in a conversation, or long minutes trying to get to sleep without looking at Jon. It is for the most part outweighed by the hours of easy company, ignored, forgotten, or outright absent; yet it will not  _ stay _ away.

Jenny is pleased to get her clippers back on Monday, though, and asks how the wine was, and when Martin says they’re saving it for a special occasion, her knowing glance makes him stumble and stammer. He accidentally muses out loud about getting some curtains, and the look of curious determination on her face makes him rather nervous about going back. Back at the cabin, when he asks Jon what to do if she tries to dump a pile of fabric and rods on him the next time he goes for shopping, Jon chuckles and offers to come along to help share the load.

Martin is halfway through quoting  _ The Return of the King  _ before he even registers the implication.

“Wait — you’re going to come to the village?” he says sharply from where he is experimenting with a different way of laying the firewood in the hearth (he got a few tips from Folami at the bakery). “Is that — is it… safe?”

Jon shrugs, barely peeking up from the third of the medical textbooks. “There’s been no sign of any danger,” he says, “and I haven’t…  _ felt  _ anything. It seems like the kind of thing the Eye would want to warn us about, don’t you think? If something was coming for us.”

Martin snorts, crumpling up pages of old newspaper for kindling. “It’s not exactly been consistent with warnings before.”

“Fair point. Still…” Martin looks up in time to see Jon nervously lick his lips. “I’d like to come into the village.” His gaze turns flat and sardonic as he adds, “I’d like to meet Jenny.”

“You mean, before she breaks down our door trying to find out if I really do have a mystery husband waiting for me at home,” Martin jokes, then immediately freezes and regrets his choice of words. “N-not that we’re —  _ that!” _ he cries, spinning on his knees and holding both hands up in surrender to Jon’s wide-eyed, slack-jawed face. “I just — I’m pretty sure that’s what she assumed, but I  _ swear _ I never said anything to encourage her! I think she’s just p-presumptive? Optimistic, I — I guess? I said there were two of us and that your name was Samir, and she asked if that was a woman’s name so I said you were a man — and she got this look in her eye, like she was cottoning on to some sort of implication, and I was just trying to find cumin seeds, I didn’t have time to — a-and now it’s too late, if I try to argue she just smiles and nods along like she’s in on a joke and —”

“It’s fine, Martin,” Jon says through an abrupt laugh. “It doesn’t matter. In fact, the assumption could probably help us out.”

Barely —  _ just barely _ — Martin manages to keep control of the squeak in his voice.

_ “What?” _

“Well,” Jon shrugs, not quite regulating his voice as normal, “Samir Peachy and Chris Holsworth might — might be married, but — J-Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood… aren’t. So. It — could throw people off.” He pauses, and Martin cannot possibly think of a coherent response. “Right?”

“I… guess so?”

“I’m not —” Jon hurries to add, “n-not saying we need to  _ pretend  _ or anything, I-I just mean… Logically,  _ objectively,  _ it might be a good idea not to try too hard to disabuse her of the — o-of the idea.”

Martin takes a long moment to process Jon’s words, knelt in front of the fireplace amidst the faint smell of soot and dirty wood. He’s right, unfortunately: any distance they can place between themselves and their true identities is probably a good thing, and Martin is familiar with that kind of fundamental lie, which touches everything but changes very little. Of course, being familiar with it also means he is immediately able to pick at it, to find the inconsistencies an outsider might notice, the potholes that would need to be smoothed over in the execution.

“We don’t have rings,” he says, glancing up at Jon. The man gives an infuriatingly forthright response in his puzzled expression, latching onto the problem like a mystery, the heart of which he intends to find.

“We could have just decided not to have any,” he reasons, “but that’s pretty lacklustre an excuse.”

“Not sure it’s all that believable, either,” Martin adds, going back to the firewood. “I mean, it’s only been, what — four years since it became legal? I certainly don’t know any gay couples who don’t want to show it off.”

Jon rears back at that, bafflement curling at his lip and furrowing his brow, book forgotten in his lap. “How many gay couples  _ do  _ you know?”

“Oh, a few,” Martin shrugs. “I mean, no one I’m  _ close _ to — it’s hard to be close to  _ anyone _ when it turns out you can’t quit your job working for an evil eye man and you’re constantly being attacked by creepy worm queens or mannequins or flesh monsters or whatever. And, y’know — before that, too.”

“Martin —” Jon starts, with a note of sympathetic warning in his voice, so Martin moves swiftly on from that topic.

“But still, a few,” he insists. “I mean, I know more queer people who  _ don’t  _ want to get married, at all. More straight people who don’t either, probably. But, y’know — we’re posh city Englishmen, I feel like we’d be expected to show off about it, be a bit flashy. Especially with me being, you know —” He gives a short laugh that he hopes encompasses everything from a years-long campaign of yearning to a penchant for poetry.  _ “Me.” _

“Good point,” Jon concedes. “Lost them? Keep them at home when we’re wandering the countryside? Maybe we left them wherever we dropped your phone before Insch.”

Martin laughs, just catching the playfully sardonic tone as he fiddles with the matches. “I mean, we could just be engaged,” he suggests. “That feels easiest, and it doesn’t invite any more nosy questions beyond ‘when’s the date’, and we can just say we haven’t decided. It stands out less than flimsy excuses about where exactly the rings are and why we can’t just put them on one day to show them off.” He watches the kindling catch and the logs start to blacken, and nods in satisfaction, tossing the used match into the growing fire as he stands and steps back from the hearth. When he turns back to the sofa, Jon is frowning at him, as if trying to solve a simple but obtuse riddle.

“You really  _ are  _ good at this, aren’t you?”

“What, lying?” Martin huffs a mirthless laugh, picking up the Dickinson and sitting on one leg in the sofa corner opposite Jon. “Not by choice, believe me.” He opens the book and gets settled back into the style he’s gradually growing accustomed to. Dickinson’s words are often still obscure, and he should probably be reading the footnotes to understand them properly, but he’s always contended that poetry should transcend individual circumstances, and the fact that some of them touch him without any context of the eighteen-whatevers is surely proof of her genius.

He’s halfway into crawling through a piece about losing a woman, and the alienness of growing apart, when Jon pipes up again from the other corner.

“I’m sorry.”

Martin bites his tongue against the instinctual recrimination.

“What for?” he asks, thrown by the non-sequitur.

“That you —” Jon sighs to himself through his nose, then gives a short laugh. “It sounds strange, but — that you’ve become a good liar. You don’t like it, do you?”

Martin takes a moment to reflect on the question. It’s not something he’s ever really thought about — possibly something he’s  _ avoided  _ thinking about — but… “Yeah, it’s not — I’d rather not. But, you know,” he adds, pulling himself together, “needs must and all that. I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t gotten used to it.”

Jon hums, watching him from under heavy brows. “I forget, sometimes,” he says, almost to himself. “You’ve always been so —  _ optimistic,  _ I suppose, so nice to everyone. I thought you were downright incompetent when you started in the Archives.”

“Hey!”

“But really, you’re — …”

Martin waits, but Jon doesn’t seem able to find the end of that sentence. Again, he forces himself to push through the urge to shrug off the consolation, the sincerity, and the messy, difficult feelings, and takes a breath before he can say:

“Yeah. Thank you.”

The conversation ebbs, then, as they both return to their books in the slow lead-up to dinner, as the afternoon light begins to wane and, independent of each other, they both ponder whether it’s worth turning on the power early to prepare the food in proper light. Martin turns back to his bookmarked page, and reads over the quiet words that seem so sharp in his lungs, once more trying to commit them to memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll learn what the big important Dickinson poem is later, but the one about growing apart is ['Now I knew I lost her'](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/56825/now-i-knew-i-lost-her-1274).
> 
> Come talk to me at [@cuddlytogas](https://cuddlytogas.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Jon and Martin miss technology, and the fog returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art in this chapter is by the truly excellent Lucas (@d0ntblink142), also found [here](https://d0ntblink182.tumblr.com/post/638799856660545536/heres-my-drawing-for-chapter-5-of)!

Tuesday morning arrives with the wind-up whistling of larks, and fresh sunlight streaming brightly enough to pierce the old newspapers on the cabin windows and fill the bedroom, waking Martin slowly and gently. He stretches out his legs and shoulders, and wriggles onto his side, inadvertently crowding into Jon’s space and prompting a half-asleep grumble.

“Sorry,” Martin mumbles into his pillow, the dark blue satin of the case more familiar with each passing night. He is answered by another incomprehensible sound, and Jon’s limbs twitching where they touch his with a momentary, grasping instinct. By the time Martin bothers to open his eyes, Jon’s are glowing again amidst the general, pained frown on his face. As always, Martin resists the urge to smooth his thumbs against the creases, and rolls the other way to drag himself out of bed. The light is good, and he finds a white sun and a sky empty of clouds when he opens the kitchen windows.

He is finally able to wash the windows after breakfast and tea. Jon helps out with the lower panes, but he can’t quite reach the upper parts, and leaves them to Martin’s superior height. They wade through the overgrown plants and flick soap bubbles at each other, and drench their arms in soapy, grimy water, but it’s worth it at last to find the sun shining a full shade brighter into the house once they’re done. They stop at taking down the newspaper, though; it would feel too exposed to have no coverings at all, especially since they’re still technically hunted men; and, as Jon adds quietly, it feels wrong to contravene such a fundamental part of Daisy’s setup. Martin is kind enough not to mention that it’s unlikely she’ll be coming back to check. It’s the principle of the thing, he decides, and offers an arm, drawing Jon into a sideways hug where he rests his cheek on Martin’s shoulder and decidedly does not cry. His is a slow grief, and there is no way forward but to endure it.

That night, after a cheery dinner and an hour and a half of reading, Martin finally cracks. He calmly places his makeshift bookmark, puts down the volume of Dickinson poems, plants his elbows on his knees, and groans long and loud into his hands.

“God, I miss technology.”

 _“Finally!”_ Jon bursts out, startling Martin out of his hands to see him all but throwing the latest medical volume onto the floor.

“What d’you mean, _finally?”_

“I’ve been craving my laptop since we got here,” Jon explains with a strong note of bitterness in his voice, “but I _refused_ to be the first one to admit it.”

Martin is laughing before he even finishes the sentence, open and surprised. “I’m _sorry?”_

“Oh, I had absolutely _no_ interest in being schooled in the charms of a ‘lo-fi life,’” Jon all but snarls, with condemnatory finger quotes and a dismissive wave, “not from Mr Retro over here.”

“Mr what? You’re not serious!”

“I am a hundred percent serious,” Jon sniffs. “Under no circumstances was I going to let you win.”

 _“Win?”_ Martin parrots, and he’s smiling so wide by now that it’s obstructing his vision. “Jon, _what_ are you talking about, it’s not a competition! I wouldn’t have said anything!”

“Yes you would!” Jon scoffs. “Don’t t— don’t you dare try and tell me you wouldn’t have said something horribly trite about how _nice_ it is to get away from the — the _hustle and bustle_ of _modern life_ , you would’ve gone on and on about how calm and refreshing it is —”

“I’m not denying it’s refreshing!”

“My point exactly!”

Martin cackles out loud, dissolving into a fit of giggles in which Jon steadfastly refuses to participate. “It can be nice to have some time away from technology without it being — wi-without being _accusatory!”_

“Oh, certainly, you would have been _magnanimous_ in victory,” Jon sneers, making Martin almost shriek with renewed laughter.

“Jon —” he squeezes out between giggles — _“what —”_

And at last, Jon breaks. He sucks in his lips, tucking them between his teeth to stop a smile from growing, and Martin launches himself into the middle of the couch with a wild, accusatory, and delighted laugh.

“You’re winding me up!” he shouts. “You are _winding me up,_ you _absolute_ — you bastard!”

Jon concedes not by admitting to it, but by dropping the argument with an exaggerated groan of pain and a roll of his head to throw his despair to the ceiling.

“God, but imagine having a _phone,”_ he opines. “Just, being able to text people and look at old cat photos…”

Martin is immediately on board with the self-indulgent complaints train.

“Scrolling aimlessly through your Facebook feed,” he says, relaxing into the cushions again. “Instagram comments, God.”

 _“Twitter!”_ Jon adds, with a grand gesture at nothing, arms akimbo. “God, I never thought I’d miss Twitter this much!”

 _“Netflix,”_ Martin groans, and buries his face into the back of the sofa in mourning. “What I wouldn’t give to just put on some stupid movie or a show I’ve seen ten times…”

“Streaming documentaries…” Jon sighs, and Martin snorts a laugh.

“God, you’re such a nerd,” he says with infinite fondness, sneaking a peek from the cushions. Jon swivels around to glare at him, but it doesn’t last long: the affection behind Martin’s teasing must be visible on his face, and Jon doesn’t try to argue with him. Instead, he reaches out with one socked foot, and kicks half-heartedly at Martin’s knee with only a mumbled, non-committal protest.

“Shut up.”

With a long _pff_ of a laugh, Martin doesn’t bother to retaliate. “I’m the one reading Emily Dickinson,” he offers.

“That doesn’t make you a nerd, that makes you a Romantic sap,” Jon drawls. “Capital-R, morbidity and all.”

“I am not!”

“You _are.”_

“I’m not exactly going around carrying someone — someone’s calcified heart around with me, am I?”

Jon levels a stare at him, and says, “You gave me a jar of someone’s _ashes.”_

“Wh— wha— but — th-that was different!” Martin splutters. “You were having a paranoid crisis!”

“It’s still the exchange of dead body parts as a comfort item,” Jon points out.

“That’s —” Martin tries, fully aware that he is losing the argument — “bu— you are — _eugh!”_

With a satisfied smirk and half a laugh, Jon pokes Martin’s leg with his toe again, as if to say, _But I love you anyway._ It is enough to assuage any discomfort, and Martin takes a second to squeeze Jon’s ankle on the cushion between them as he reaches out for the Dickinson again. He turns back to his first bookmark and reads over his favourite again, and eventually Jon picks up his textbook and continues his own reading, briefly complaining about needing to finish _The OA._ Martin mentions his adolescent crush on Jason Isaacs, citing his performance of Captain Hook as revelatory, and Jon politely agrees to the assessment.

As usual, their bedtime is early in deference to the dying candles and their straining eyes, and they brush their teeth in the few minutes for which they turn on the power to heat the kettle for Jon’s hot water bottle. When they settle into bed, Martin once more swallows his nerves and lets Jon’s hand find a place on him — his upper arm, this time — and hold him to reality. Sleep comes upon him rapidly after Jon’s eyes have closed and taken on their dull, emerald glow, his fingers a warm reminder.

After what must only have been a few hours, however, Martin finds himself blinking into the darkness. As the tiredness drains from him, he only needs to wonder about what woke him for a moment before he hears it again: a whistling sound, high but distant, sounding from somewhere out beyond the cabin. It is muffled, whipped and warped by the breeze, and quickly falls silent again.

Martin turns his face to the wall, freeing his other ear, and listens: there is a long minute of silence; and then the whistle sounds once more, a few seconds of piping sound, warbling as it changes between its few, long notes. It doesn’t sound like a threat: the Stranger tends towards music that sounds a little off, but this tone is only warped by distance, not the uncanny; and Martin’s pretty sure that the Hunters — in and outside of Section 31 — are unlikely to alert their victims by such obvious sounds. He thinks briefly of the trumpets and drums of the Slaughter, but the sound he can hear is more of a shifting note than a tune to dance to, and he feels no sting of violence, only a faint curiosity edged with worry.

The piping sounds again, and Martin makes a decision.

With careful, quiet movements, he folds back the covers and rolls out of bed, not bothering with slippers or shoes. Keeping one ear always pricked for the intermittent sound, he takes the keys from the dresser as silently as possible, and eases open the door with only the slightest of clicks and creaks.

Out in the main room, the air is a shade colder, and Martin tucks his bare arms close to his body, toes curling against the pale wooden floor as he makes for the front door. It is difficult, but not impossible, to stay quiet as he methodically opens every lock and bolt, and one by one, they come loose, until he can lay the keys on the table and step out into a misty midnight. The fields and distant trees are obscured by wispy fog, and the moon is in its quarter, shedding just enough light to gild the gentle hilltops, and make starker the shadows underneath.

The sound is clearer here, and Martin walks towards the source, away from the path towards Lost. Without the muffling walls of the cabin, he can pick it out easily, a shrill, distant pipe which whips up, then low, then up again, then fades out to nothing. He can’t see much through the fog, but certainly no player is visible, so he takes a few further steps, distantly noting that his toes are starting to go numb. _That seems quick,_ he thinks as the fog closes behind him, dismissing the thought when he hears the pipe again even more clearly and adjusts his course. The dirt and gravel turn to grass under his feet as he picks his way closer, frowning in concentration and waiting for the call to come again.

_Whip up, then low, then up again, then fade down to nothing._

Straight ahead then; perhaps behind this hill?

_Whip up, then low, then up again, then fade down to nothing._

And then, at last, Martin realises what the sound is: a bosun’s whistle; all hands on deck. He watched just enough _Hornblower_ as a kid to recognise it.

Martin’s breath freezes in his lungs. He’s not stupid — he did his research on Peter Lukas — and they are far from the ocean, now — and the sound is coming from just behind the next hill, tempting him further and further away — a lure and a call to arms all at once — and the cabin is —

He whips around, and can see only fog behind him, thick and heavy enough to be a physical presence in the night. There is no valley for him to see, and no cottage, with no overgrown front yard. There is no one to welcome him home — there is no one —

_No._

Like the clatter of a knife, the denial strikes him, an option that he has taken before, that he will take again. _I’m saying no._ There is someone who loves him, and by God is there someone he loves, and by no means is he going to follow the call. He just has to find —

Then the whistle sounds again, and the cold pierces Martin to his core, and he can’t remember the name he was about to think. He’ll never find his way back to the cabin, and if he did, it would take so long that whoever is there will have left, of course. After all, who would wait for Martin Blackwood? He wouldn’t even wait for himself, given half a chance. Better to forget about it, to stop pretending that he has any reason to stick around. The call is coming, and he might as well follow it.

_Whip up, then low, then up again, then fade down to nothing._

His legs are cold and stiff, and he squeezes his eyes shut against the feeling in his chest, like an icy hand plunging through his skin, gripping his sternum, and crushing it to pieces. _Give up,_ says the hand, as it drags him down to the grey, dewy grass. _There is no one for you. There has never been anyone for you. Your own mother hated you. Why keep denying the obvious?_

The whistle comes again, sharp, then slow, then fading, and Martin covers his ears with shaking fingers and frantically, desperately, tries to think of a face that has ever considered him with more than pity or contempt.

“No…” he groans into his knees, as the whistle pierces through his feeble defences. He grips his fingers tight in his hair, already marked and drained by that whistle’s lies. _Evenings on the sofa,_ he thinks, remembering the smells of a wood fire, an old book, and musty, disused furniture. _Spicy chicken on rice. Long train rides and overnight buses._ There is a line of poetry at the back of his mind, and if he can just hold onto it — if he can just remember where he read it — _dark brown eyes ringed with green and urging him to_ look…

But that was ages ago, years perhaps. It is negligible, in the long run.

_Was it he that bore? Was it yesterday, or centuries before?_

Reading on the sofa by candlelight, and Jon —

The whistle sounds again.

_Jon —_

“NO!”

“Martin?!”

He comes back to himself with a gasp, as the bosun’s call is silenced and feeling pours back into him. His pyjamas are damp from knee to ankle, grass and dirt clinging to his dew-soaked feet. He is cold all over, far more than the cool night should warrant, and only a thin layer of mist hovers above the ground, swirling and thinning, revealing the grass, the valley, and the star-filled sky. Martin takes his hands down from his ears, and only the usual night sounds reach him, of the breeze in distant trees, and the intermittent chatters and whoops of nocturnal creatures.

And when he looks aside, Jon is running towards him in his purple flannel, just distinguishable against the shadow of the cottage a short distance away.

 _“Martin —”_ Jon cries when he reaches him, tumbling to his knees and wrapping his arms around Martin’s shoulders to grip him painfully tight, cheek pressed to the back of his shoulder. Something like a sob or a gasp wracks through him, and Martin feels the jolt down to his bones, as Jon’s hands dart restlessly over his shoulders and neck, as if wanting to touch every part of him to ensure he’s all there.

Martin tries to speak, but his voice comes out as nothing more than breath. He swallows, and manages to form a whisper. “There was a whistle,” he explains. “It — it was a bosun’s call.”

“No, _no,”_ Jon growls, jerking about to look into Martin’s face. “He’s dead. I killed him, he’s not coming for you anymore.”

But Martin shakes his head; that isn’t right. That isn’t everything. Peter was only a part of the machine which grinds on without him. He doesn’t know how to say any of this, but Jon seems to catch his meaning, and his eyes shine with silver and shadow in the faint moonlight as they well with tears. He doesn’t try to argue, just gives a wet-sounding gasp, and shuts his eyes as the tears fall, dropping his forehead to Martin’s shoulder.

“Come on,” he says, choked and strained — “let’s get you inside. We’ll get a fire going. Get you warm, get —”

He doesn’t seem able to finish the sentence, but it hardly matters. His palms are hot enough to hurt Martin’s freezing skin as he urges him to his feet and tugs him back towards the cabin, holding both of Martin’s hands in his own and barely glancing away from his face. Martin doesn’t know what his expression is doing to remain so fascinating, and the scrutiny burns almost as much as his touch, but in the same way, it is a reassuring sting, reminding Martin that he is alive and valued, and that he is not alone.

Jon doesn’t complain when Martin squeezes his hands in return, hard enough that he is surely hurting his slender fingers.

Back in the cabin, Jon kicks the front door shut behind them with a _crash,_ and ushers Martin onto the sofa, muttering all the while a running commentary of directions and reassurances. He piles wood and kindling on the last embers of the earlier fire, and wastes three matches trying to light it with his shaking hands.

“You should lock the door,” Martin says, as the flickering glow of firelight slowly pushes back against the gloom. Jon doesn’t seem inclined to obey — just skirts the coffee table and reaches for Martin’s jaw with both hands — so Martin squeezes his arm and says, “Jon? I mean it. We’re still being hunted. Lock the door.”

Jon’s hands go tight on either side of Martin’s face, and he leans down to press his tight brow into Martin’s hair, wild and uneven as it is from earlier sleep. Then he does as requested, reluctantly relinquishing his grasp and hurrying to the door, plucking the keys from the table as he goes. Martin breathes deeply of the warm, firelit air as Jon locks up, and looks down at his hands: they are a little pale from the cold, but there is still colour in them, and the floor below is its usual, dark shade.

Then Jon is rounding the sofa and crawling to Martin’s side, and he is pulled down into a hug with Jon’s humid breath quivering against his neck, and the ice in his chest grips ever tighter even as it melts.

Slowly, tentatively, Martin raises his arms, and circles them around Jon’s middle. The world does not end; if anything, it grows a little brighter. Jon shifts his head to free his mouth so he can speak.

“I woke up when you opened the door,” he murmurs into Martin’s ear. “You — you didn’t answer me, you just — just kept walking, kept leaving. I tried to stop you, but it was like you couldn’t hear me. By the time I caught up, you were just going through the front door, and — and you vanished. There was fog, and — and you were just _gone._ Martin —” Jon’s hands tighten in Martin’s shirt, bunching up fistfuls of thin, cotton-poly blend. He gasps a few breaths, but doesn’t seem to have any more words.

Martin swallows; licks his lips; and manages to form words.

“It tried,” he breathes. “It tried to get me. Th— the Lonely. Tried to pull me back.”

“But you resisted,” Jon finishes for him, and Martin nods against his shoulder.

“I remembered you. And —” He huffs a laugh at how ridiculous it is. “And Emily Dickinson.”

“Dickinson?” Jon repeats, confusion evident in his voice.

“Yeah. I think I’ve got a favourite of hers.”

 _“Please_ don’t tell me it’s ‘Hope is the thing with feathers’, Martin, that would just be too cliché —”

With a snorting laugh, Martin feels hot tears on his cheeks, and buries his face in Jon’s collar. Another shirt ruined.

“No,” he forces out, squeaking and hoarse, “it’s not ‘the thing with feathers’, but in her defence, that is a _very_ good poem!”

Jon answers his giggle with a laugh of his own, though it sounds awfully like sobbing. A second later, he pulls back enough to slide one hand under Martin’s chin and tilt his face up, searching for something in his eyes. He clearly doesn’t find what he’s looking for: his brows pull down at the edges, and he bites his lips between his teeth as if holding something down in his lungs. Martin heaves a sigh, and sniffs with a disgusting, wet sound.

“They’re grey again, aren’t they?”

Jon nods, then pants out his held breath, dashing the tears from his eyes with the heel of his palm before bringing that hand back to Martin’s chin.

“They’ll go back,” he promises, with a thin attempt at a smile. “It’s okay. Eventually, they’ll turn back.”

It is a poor attempt at consolation, but the hope in his voice makes Martin sob. How does he have the energy to keep holding on?

“I thought it was over,” Martin rasps, not meeting Jon’s eye. “There wasn’t even a reason for it this time, nothing happened, we were just asleep — I made my choice, I said no — I thought I was _done —”_

He can’t form words anymore, through the tightness in his throat and the despair in his chest. What if it never stops? What if this is his life forever, a constant, gruelling battle to stay in the world, to stay himself, always under Forsaken’s shadow? What if, one day, he loses?

“I’m sorry,” Jon whispers, “I’m so sorry…”

“I just want it to be _done —”_

“Look — Martin, this is —” Jon sniffs hard, and swallows as he brings both hands to cup Martin’s cheeks and jaw, smearing his tear tracks with his thumbs. “It’s not — R-r-recovery, sobriety, these things, they’re — they’re not straight roads. We all struggle, most of us relapse at one time or another, it — it’s not unusual, or, or a point of shame. And— and yes, it’s going to be hard. Of course it’s going to be hard. But —” At whatever thought he has, he gives a little smile, strong and private, like a shared joke. “Well, it’s like you said: what matters is that you try, and that you _keep_ trying. I wish there was an easy solution. I wish it were as simple as saying ‘no’ once and being done with it, but — well, we were never going to be that lucky, were we?”

Martin’s breath is steadying under the barrage of good points, under the calming influence of Jon’s voice, propping him up while he can’t do it for himself, just holding the world for a day or two in his place. Martin sniffs, and unlatches one hand from Jon’s shirt to wipe at his eyes and nose.

“And let’s not lose sight of the fact that you’re hardly the only party involved,” Jon goes on, his voice gaining strength. “You’ve read the statements, you’ve seen how it works: these things, the entities, they don’t like to let people go. Once they’ve had a taste, they keep coming back for the rest. There is —” He stops for the shortest, mirthless laugh. “There is an actively malicious entity that wants you either part of it, or dead. This isn’t just your brain chemistry working against you, this is — it’s a malevolent force that is trying to _murder you._ That it tried to take you is hardly a personal weakness of yours, and the fact that you were able to resist it — well, it’s all the more impressive, I’d say.”

It takes a moment, and a gasp, but Martin manages to concede the point, nodding and trying to return Jon’s smile. If Jon’s grasping fingers and tiny chuckle are anything to go by, it must at last halfway work.

“There,” he sighs, wiping his thumbs once more over the swell of Martin’s freckled cheeks, “that’s better. You’ll be yourself again in no time.”

And he’s right. Martin already feels warmer, from the fire and the return to himself. Jon’s words, his voice, his careful attention, are grounding him, working up the foundation laid by his own rejection of the Lonely. The closeness of his body is intoxicating, soothing at the edges of him and piercing to his core to banish the last remnants of that icy fist in his chest. Martin wants closer, he wants _more;_ and maybe it’s the Eye, or maybe Jon knows him well in the most mundane fashion, but even as he has the thought, Jon fulfils it, leaning in and urging Martin’s head down with a hand at his nape, cupped under the curve of his skull, until their brows are touching and Martin can sigh out the last of the chill in his lungs. He closes his eyes, and tips them both to the side to lean into the back of the sofa, limbs hooked loosely over each other and faces close enough to feel each other’s breath as their tears dry, searingly intimate. Martin’s mind goes blank, absorbing the feeling of Jon’s fingers shifting on the collar of his t-shirt, and the languid serenity of firelit company in the dead of night.

They sit like that for a long time — half an hour, perhaps — until Jon’s neck starts to hurt and Martin’s shoulders ache from the hunch, and they both start to drift off again. Jon smooths his hands along Martin’s cheeks and down his neck to wake them both, and whispers something about going back to bed, and Martin nods, bracing himself for the separation. It’s not as bad as expected, and he rubs the feeling back into his arms and shakes out his legs as Jon hauls himself up to damp the fire with yesterday’s ashes.

Jon gets the keys, and leads Martin by the hand back into the bedroom, locking the door behind them. Perhaps it’s an accident, or just an absent, habitual gesture, but he leaves the keys on the dresser where Martin could certainly get to them again, and he can’t help but read faith in the gesture, the willed certainty — like forced trust — that Martin will not wander again tonight. They climb back under the covers, cool after the fire in the living room, and Jon doesn’t even ask before he shuffles close and urges Martin onto his side until they are facing one another. Martin tucks one arm under his head, and Jon gathers his free hand in both of his own between them, almost pulling it in to the protection of his chest. Without the light of the fire, they are plunged back into the deep shadow of the night, touched so lightly by the silver of the quarter-moon that Martin can just make out the thin, green rings around Jon’s eyes.

There is something he wants to say, but also doesn’t; he braces himself against the worser instinct, and pushes himself into the abyss of the unknown.

“After great pain,” he recites in a whisper, digging through his memory for the words, “a formal feeling comes.”

Jon frowns at him, meeting his eye over their hands and the edges of the pillows.

“What?”

“It’s a poem,” Martin explains, “the Emily Dickinson poem. Let me finish.”

“Martin, I _really_ don’t know if I’m going t—”

Martin shushes him, clears his throat, and starts again.

“After great pain, a formal feeling comes. The nerves sit like tombs, and the stiff heart questions: ‘Was it he that bore?’, and ‘Yesterday, or centuries before?’” Jon’s thumbs are moving, brushing over Martin’s knuckles and the base of his thumb. “The feet go mechanically around a wooden path, of ground, or air, or ought, regardless growing a quartz contentment, like a stone.” He swallows, and meets Jon’s eye, and says, “This is the bit,” before the final stanza. “This is the hour of lead, remembered, if outlived, as freezing people remember the snow: first, chill — then stupor — then the letting go —”

It ends like that, on the dash, and Martin doesn’t bother trying to find a conclusion in his tone. He lets the last words sink into the pillows, and carefully interlaces his fingers with Jon’s.

“It’s cold in the Lonely,” he explains, hardly able to bring his voice up to more than a whisper, watching their hands rather than Jon’s expression. “I don’t know if she knew that when she wrote the poem, but — it feels… apt. After a great pain, a formal feeling comes — the hour of lead — remembered like winter. First chill, then stupor — then a letting go.” He swallows again, hard. “I know that feeling. I know that chill, and that — blankness. And I want to reach the next part. I want to let it go.”

Jon shifts closer, at last pulling Martin’s hand into the inward curve of his chest, as if to protect him from the full power of Forsaken with only his own body. Incredibly, Martin thinks, it might just work.

It’s a long time before Jon voices a reply, long enough that Martin has started to drift off again amidst the warmth, and closeness, and protecting dark. He clears his throat with a delicate cough, and says, “It wasn’t word-for-word, but I think I see what you mean.”

Martin just huffs a giggling laugh and wriggles closer, until his head rests between their pillows and their shoulders and knees are jostling for space. Jon doesn’t complain, just rolls in so he’s almost lying on top of Martin’s hand, and hooks one leg over Martin’s, tangling them together.

Martin dreams of the fog, thinning into feeble wisps and brushed away by a firelit breeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here](https://youtu.be/Tn8gASbAxkA?t=173) is a bosun's whistle playing the call for 'all hands on deck'.
> 
> The Emily Dickinson in this chapter (if you want to read a version not warped by Martin's memory) is  
> ['After great pain, a formal feeling comes'](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47651/after-great-pain-a-formal-feeling-comes-372). Jon also references ['"Hope" is the thing with feathers'](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/42889/hope-is-the-thing-with-feathers-314).
> 
> Come talk to me at [@cuddlytogas](https://cuddlytogas.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Jon and Martin go for a walk, the Ceaseless Watcher rears its head, and Martin gets a start on Sappho.

Martin is sitting on the sofa tapping an open notebook with the end of a pen when Jon marches out from the bathroom, sets his hands on his hips, and says: “Shall we go for a walk?”

With a short laugh, Martin closes the notebook over the pen. “Keen to meet Jenny?” he asks, smiling, and Jon ducks his head to hide his amusement.

“No,” he says, definitively. “I’m just, um…” He looks around himself, at the dark walls and covered windows, and up at the low ceiling. “Getting a bit — cabin fever-y, that’s all.” Martin glances down at Jon’s feet, thin and double-socked; it doesn’t escape Jon’s notice, and he glares. “I can wear those boots you got at the village.”

“Won’t you just get lost?”

Jon shrugs.

“I don’t think so,” he says. “But if I do, well…”

“You can always _see_ your way back,” Martin sighs. “Right.”

Jon shifts his weight over his feet, wringing his hands slightly. “Well?” he says. “Want to come along? I don’t, um —” His hands tighten on each other, and he looks down at them as if annoyed by his own gesture. “I’d rather not — I-I’d rather not leave you alone, that’s all.”

A chill of shame runs down Martin’s spine at that, and he grips the notebook harder, glancing away. He does so hate to feel like a burden.

Jon takes a sharp breath, and amends himself.

“I’d rather you were with me.”

When Martin looks up, Jon’s eyes are fixed somewhere above Martin’s head, determinedly avoiding his eye, and his expression is blank but for his tight, thin mouth. In short, he looks as if it took a great effort to say what he did, but he steadfastly refuses to rescind it. One side of Martin’s mouth lifts up in a smile.

“Yeah,” he says, quietly, and watches the tension visibly drain from Jon’s shoulders, his hands releasing each other. “Just let me put on some shoes.”

Getting out of the cottage is a greater relief than Martin had expected. It is a breezy day, with piles of clouds scudding across a pale blue sky and the intermittent sun a reminder of warmth, while the dirt road leading away from Lost is even enough to be comfortable, but wild enough not to be mistaken for concrete or cobbles — to feel like nature under Martin’s feet. The air is so fresh here that it feels almost unreal, a clarity Martin has never experienced before, and just walking without a purpose gives him the time to actually appreciate that fact. It gets to the point that he slows down just to admire the easy slopes of the fields on either side and the new colour of the sky while Jon charges ahead, rolling his eyes as he calls for him to catch up.

They don’t get lost, in the end. They stick to the road as the broad fields turn into a pine forest on one side, and when they crest one rise or another, they can just spot the Water of Nochty on their right, marking their place as it twists its way back to Bellabeg. Their conversation is sparse, both men focused on breathing and keeping their footing, but every so often Martin reaches out to pull at Jon’s arm and make him pause to take in a particularly breathtaking, pastoral view. Jon seems a lot more intent to keep moving, even though they don’t have a particular goal in mind, but he stops nonetheless to begrudgingly admit to the beauty of the greenery. At some point, they cross the Nochty and make a hard turn, and the road narrows even further to wind alongside the creek, the land growing more rugged and the forests more common than smooth fields.

Eventually, Jon slows to a halt by a large pile of earth and shattered shale, and turns in a full circle to survey the surroundings.

“We’ll come up to another house if we go much further,” he says, voice pitched low under the wind. Martin understands: they’ll stand out too much, these English strangers in the middle of nowhere. Best to turn back now.

Instead, Martin mimics Jon’s slow turn, taking in the gravel rise on one side topped with crooked trees, the bare field on the other running down in earthy lines to a deep valley, and the curve in the path ahead, leading to another little dell. A glance at Jon’s watch tells them they’ve been walking for nearly an hour, and the only suggestion of a human presence is an intermittent humming in the distance that might be tractors and machinery, but could just as well be the wind in the trees or a trick of their ears. Here on the rise, the Cairngorm mountains are visible to the west, built up against the horizon with the promise of winter nestled in their peaks. Martin is sweaty under his coat, but the breeze still nips at his extremities, so he shrugs down into his collar and buries his hands in his pockets as he surveys the valley.

The solitude is calming, the bushes and grasses on the verge a wild, grounding presence, sparkling with the last remnants of summer’s flowers still clinging to life. Martin breathes deeply, and is filled with a sense of calm, soothing the tension in his back and the knot in his chest that has persisted for as long as he can remember. He had never set much store in the healing properties of the countryside, and remained sceptical of homeopathy and natural remedies — they’d certainly never done anything to help his mum — but here, surrounded by the chattering of birds and the distant rustle of little creatures, the air untainted by pollution, with muddled greens and browns on every side… He’s beginning to see the appeal. On an inexplicable impulse, he steps to the edge of the path and crouches down to run his hands through the long grass, gripping at the waxy blades not hard enough to pull, only to feel the texture against his skin. He spots a lone, tiny flower amidst the fading greenery and reaches in to snap the stem and pluck it out.

“Um… Martin?”

“Hm?”

He rolls the flower back and forth between finger and thumb, and smiles at the simple pleasure, five yellow petals spinning one way and another around their tufted centre. To his left, Jon tentatively lowers himself to the ground, crouching with his weight on one knee and leaning forward to look into Martin’s face.

“Martin, look at me, please.”

He sounds so careful, with a seam of controlled worry under his steady tone, that Martin gives a quick grin before turning his head and catching Jon’s dark, liquid gaze.

“I’m fine,” he says, barely above a whisper in deference to the low sounds of the landscape. The tightness remains at the corners of Jon’s eyes, so he says it again: “Honestly, I’m fine. How’re my eyes looking?”

“Brown,” Jon answers immediately, with a nod and a hint of relief. “Dark brown.”

“Yeah,” Martin sighs. “It’s just this place, you know? It’s — …” He thinks for a long moment, gazing over the valley and trying to find a better word, but nothing suits it quite so much as, simply: “Beautiful.”

Jon snorts a laugh and ducks his head. “And you’re meant to be a poet.”

Martin bites his lip at that, but here in the grass, he can’t find it in himself to be hurt by the fond comment. He looks at the flower in his fingers — too short to be put in a vase, too small to make much decoration — and, on a whim, holds it out to Jon. There is a sharp sound from Jon’s lungs, and a pause; he doesn’t speak, but raises his hand and holds it out over Martin’s, not touching, as time stands still between them. Martin realises that his own breath has gone shallow, almost still, as Jon’s hand hovers so close to his own. He remembers what it felt like to cling to each other’s fingers in those hours and days after the Lonely, Jon tugging him along by the hand or the arm, remaining ever within reach. He wants that closeness back like he needs it to breathe, like a gift from heaven held tantalisingly close, which to touch would mean utter devastation.

“No,” Jon breathes, pulling back his hand. “I think it suits you better.”

Martin frowns at that, indignation pulling at his mind. “You deserve nice things, Jon,” he says, a little angrily, enough to startle Jon into meeting his eye once more.

 _“Your_ hair would keep it in place,” he counters. “It wouldn’t even stick behind my ear, certainly not with glasses on.”

He’s got a point, but Martin is not one to give up so easily. He scans Jon’s body for a chance, and lands on a safety pin on the inside of the bright down jacket that swamps his skinny frame, holding a seam by the zip together after it tore two winters ago.

“Here —” he says, tucking the flower between his fingers and reaching out without thinking to undo the pin and attach it instead to the front of Jon’s thin woollen jumper. “We can fix the jacket again when we get back to the house. Meantime —”

With the pin affixed, Martin threads the stem of the flower through the little loop at the end, holding it in place. He pulls back with a smile that’s almost certainly coming off as a bit more smug than he means to.

“There,” Martin says firmly. “Suits you just fine.”

It’s only then that he realises how close they are. His hands are mere millimetres from Jon’s chest, tugging at his jumper with the safety pin, while Jon’s face is so close that Martin can feel how shaky his breath is when it touches his cheek. Jon’s neck is directly in Martin’s line of sight, dotted with a few worm scars on one side and with the short, horrible gash in the middle that Martin has wanted to soothe since he first saw the crusting wound. He can see a hint of Jon's collarbone, too, and the dip of his clavicle beneath the tantalisingly open top button of his shirt. It would take so little movement to kiss those scars, or lift his fingers and pull down his collar just so, or raise his face, tip to one side, lean in, and…

Jon’s Adam’s apple bobs right in Martin’s line of sight as he swallows hard enough to hear from this close, and Martin mentally shakes himself out of the fantasy. _Get a grip,_ he tells himself, as he draws back his hands and retreats onto his heels to survey the grass again, clearing his throat — _you’re not fresh out of the library anymore!_

Martin is snapped out of his self-recrimination by Jon emitting a low “Ah!” and leaning forward on one hand into the bushes, stretching towards something. A few seconds later, after a brisk _snap!_ , he comes back with another of the little yellow flowers, the shrubs swaying in his wake.

“Here —” says Jon, not meeting Martin’s eye, but reaching up with both hands to slide the flower into Martin’s hair at his left temple, his palms resting briefly against Martin’s forehead and cheek, cold fingers brushing the shell of his ear. Martin’s breath leaves his body for the moment, and it’s possible that his heart has stopped entirely.

When Jon pulls back, he looks warmly satisfied, folding his hands on his knee and eyeing the spot of colour in Martin’s hair. The tension around his eyes has dissipated.

Martin raises a hand, trying to feel for the flower without dislodging it, and Jon chuckles as if out of pure delight. He plucks at his jumper and cranes his neck to check on his own adornment, and licks his lips, putting the reins on his smile. Martin wants to kiss him until that smile blooms to its fullest extent, cold fingers tucked into the warmth of his collar.

He doesn’t, of course; just quietly thanks Jon, and turns back to the view before he can do something stupid like reach for Jon’s hand. They linger for a few moments longer, watching the trees and grasses wave in the breeze and the pale clouds cross the sky, before rising with the cracking of knees and the shaking out of hip joints to begin the return journey. It’s an hour back to the cabin on increasingly tender feet, and the first thing Martin does, once they have abandoned their muddy boots by the door, is make for the bathroom to lean on the sink and check his reflection. The flower makes a little yellow star above his ear, a spot of life and colour amidst the dead, white fuzz of his hair that plants a bubble of hope under his ribs.

Over his shoulder, Jon appears in the mirror, leaning against the doorway and crossing his arms.

“I told you it would look good on you,” he says, with an air of haughty smugness. Martin laughs at him, and focuses again on the flower, a promise of light come summer.

“Yeah,” he says, “thanks again.”

Jon clears his throat, and pushes off the wall to turn back towards the main room, calling over his shoulder as he goes.

“How do you feel about poached eggs for lunch?”

Jon takes a nap after they eat, sinking into a restless stupor while his eyes flicker green beneath his lids. He takes up the couch, leaving Martin to sit at the table to page through the last of the Dickinson and tap the end of a pen against the same notebook for another hour.

It doesn’t go well. After the disaster overnight, he wants nothing more than to feel normal — to make the choice to feel normal — but nothing is working. There is no ball of ice in the middle of his chest numbing his extremities and trying to convince him to stop worrying and just walk away from it all, but neither is he fine and settled. He knows, in an abstract kind of way, that he used to take enjoyment from writing poetry: that he was once able to spend hours on a rare day off in search of the right cadence, the right words to try and capture some nebulous feeling or another. Now, he can’t even figure out how to transcribe fog onto the page, and that’s the strongest feeling he knows. That, and the background hum of _Jon, Jon, Jon_ that never quite goes away in his unceasing presence. At intervals, Martin will become suddenly hyper aware of the placement of his limbs or the volume of his breathing, simply because Jon is in the same room. But how to put that feeling into poetry, he can’t figure out.

Martin is jolted out of his fruitless reverie by Jon scraping out the other chair and dropping into it, at a right angle to Martin. He looks a mess, his eyes half-closed, glasses dangling from his fingers, and his new, short hair sticking up in odd places from shifting in his sleep. Nonetheless, he is conscious enough to notice Martin’s blank page before he has a chance to close the notebook, and his brows crease with worry.

“No luck?” he asks quietly, hoarse from sleep. Martin grimaces, and shakes his head.

“Just writer’s block,” he sighs, dropping his pen onto the page and closing the notebook over it. “Thought it might’ve gone away since I’ve been reading, but…”

Jon slides on his glasses, but nothing about his eyes changes, certainly not their fine, green rings, more prominent after sleep. “Well, what did you _use_ to write about?” he asks.

 _You,_ Martin struggles not to say, shrugging over the pause. “Don’t know,” is his spoken answer, as he remembers describing rain-washed streets, and optimism, and a yearning for someone or something else that he cannot reach. Even when stuck in his dingy flat for two weeks with no airflow, constantly afraid, constantly on guard, resisting the intermittent, unrelenting knocking, he was able to write a poem about it in a thin attempt at coping.

He thinks again, about standing apart from the crowds on rain-washed streets, sitting at night in the empty archives, and seeking always for an _elsewhere._ He can’t help his tired sigh of realisation.

“The Lonely,” he adds to his answer. “More or less.”

Haltingly, Jon raises his hand above the table and moves it across, waiting for Martin to flinch away. He doesn’t; and at last, Jon’s hand comes to rest on Martin’s forearm, pockmarked and gentle. They sit like that for a long few minutes, breathing together in comfort.

“Tea?” Jon eventually offers, and Martin smiles, the last of the tension easing from his hands.

“Yeah, that’d be nice.”

Jon squeezes his arm before releasing him, and pushes back his chair. As he stands, however, he wobbles and stumbles, and Martin barely manages to get out of his seat to catch him by the elbows, legs at an awkward angle to avoid his clattering chair.

“Jesus, Jon,” he pants, “are you all right?”

Jon’s eyelids are fluttering; he looks exhausted.

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, but doesn’t stand on his own, his weight still resting in Martin’s hands. Trying to help, Martin shuffles around the corner of the table and gathers him closer, and Jon’s hands clutch reflexively at his sleeves for support.

“You don’t look fine,” Martin admonishes. “Are you sure you were sleeping just now?”

“Positive,” Jon mutters darkly. It only worries Martin further, and a horrible, inevitable suspicion dawns on him.

“Are you —” he tries, pausing to help Jon steady himself, though his hands do not leave Martin’s arms. “Jon… is it coming back? Th— the Watcher?”

Jon doesn’t meet his eye.

“Yes.”

It seems like the honeymoon is over. Martin’s throat goes tight.

“You should’ve said something,” he sighs, raising his hands to either side of Jon’s shoulders. “Maybe the walk was a bad idea.”

Jon ardently shakes his head, but doesn’t give more answer than that. Martin wants to hug him, pull him close, give comfort, but perhaps that’s the wrong move. Perhaps…

Jon leans forward against Martin’s belly and drops his head beneath his chin with a puff of air, thoroughly resigned. It sends a thrill and a twinge down into Martin’s stomach, rejoicing at the closeness, despairing at the suffering he can do little to alleviate.

Without overthinking it, Martin closes his arms around Jon, smoothing one hand up into the bristles at the back of his head, softer already from a weekend of growth. He thinks about explosions, and comas, and horrible decisions, and reminds himself to ask Basira about sending some statements.

“Yeah,” he eventually sighs, his breath ruffling the top of Jon’s hair. “Tea.”

The book of Sappho fragments is a lot thinner than the Mary Oliver, so Martin picks it up that evening as a nice change from the hefty volume of Dickinson. Knowing they’ll be going to the village tomorrow, he and Jon decide to indulge themselves and keep the electric lights on into the night, giving their strained eyes some relief. Though the poems are shorter, they require a lot more reading: ancient Greece is even further from Martin’s experience than nineteenth-century America, and he finds himself referring constantly to the explanatory notes.

Of course, even he — with only the most cursory education in history — can recognise a love poem when he sees one, and Sappho certainly does seem to have written a lot of them. There is an undeniable sensuality in her words that makes him grow hot from his ears to his knees, and he doesn’t need the notes to tell him that the temple with apples, frankincense, budding flowers, and rose leaves dripping slumber is meant for Aphrodite. Maybe it’s been too long since he so much as went on a date, let alone slept with someone; maybe Sappho is just that good. She pleads for luck from a goddess in a golden crown, and another four-line poem captures Martin so completely that he’s read it over and over before he can even register it, losing track of time and the rest of the room.

> _Now, Dika, weave the aniseed together, flower and stem,_
> 
> _With your soft hands, crown yourself with a lovely diadem_
> 
> _Because the blessed Graces grant gifts to the garlanded_
> 
> _And snub the worshipper with no flowers on her head._

He closes his eyes after perhaps the fifth mental recitation, and savours the memory of Jon’s hands against the side of his face, affixing a little yellow flower in his hair — _the blessed Graces grant gifts to the garlanded_. He wishes he could lay wreaths upon Jon, crown and adorn him to invite every blessing upon him. He imagines roses and columbines, sprays of lilacs and pansies, and heavy bushels of wisteria; petals and leaves, _flower and stem,_ adorning Jon’s hair, tucked behind his ears or draped over his brow in coronets, braided into the strands when it was still long and glorious, looped around his neck, over his shoulders, down to his hands. He wants to festoon Jon with beauty, until he understands just how gorgeous and cherished he is, until the Graces (whoever they are) finally grant him something that isn’t pain, or suffering, or horror.

Martin would kiss him like that, with every drop of tenderness he could squeeze from his heart amidst the heavy, drowsy perfume of the flowers, drowning in their power as much as he would in Jon’s lips, sweeter than any nectar. He imagines Jon tasting of rosewater or lavender tea, unwound and happy for once instead of his awfully familiar stress, strain, and terror.

“Everything all right, Martin?”

Martin trips out of his reverie, eyes snapping open to the sight of Jon returning from the loo, soft, small, and frail in the doorway to the bedroom, but still determinedly present. Any sacrifice must surely be worth that fact — be worth the open chance to garland him with aniseed.

“Fine,” Martin forces out through the squeak in his throat. “Just, um —” He holds up the book in his hands, loosely held open at the right page. “She’s got really good imagery.”

“Oh, Sappho,” says Jon, clearly recognising the cover. He leaves the doorway, and Martin can’t help but notice the way his fingertips are the last to relinquish the steady protection of the doorjamb, brushing off the wood and trailing behind him for half a second of bliss.

God, what Martin wouldn’t do to taste those fingertips. To suck them into his mouth, to kiss prayers into every inch of scar tissue along his slender hands, and up, over the dip and wave of forearm and elbow. _Graces, with wrists like roses…_

“She’s not bad, actually,” Jon is saying, as he slides into place at Martin’s side, already reaching for the book. Martin quickly releases the pages as he lets it go and passes it to Jon’s slim, careful fingers: Jon _cannot_ see what has flustered him this much.

“There’s one I actually like,” Jon continues, oblivious to Martin’s distress, as he flips through to the end of the little book. He turns a few pages back and forth, then seems to find the right one. “Here —”

In a moment of pure self-indulgence, Martin does not take the book from him, but leans in over Jon’s shoulder to read out the very last poem it contains.

“I declare that later on — even in an age unlike our own — someone will remember who we are.”

All the breath leaves Martin’s lungs. His heart is aching, though why, or for what, he cannot tell.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” Jon drawls by his ear, his handsome voice gone dry after the recitation. “I mean, she clearly wasn’t wrong, but who was she to know it?”

“It’s not ironic,” Martin breathes, wanting to admonish Jon’s levity but unwilling to break the spell of the poem. He reaches out to touch the page, where the words make no bump on the smooth, worn paper but nonetheless stand defiant, daring him to deny their power. He takes the book in both hands, and Jon’s fingers release as if in slow motion, like his relinquishing of the doorway.

Martin can tell that Jon is watching him, can feel his gaze like a physical weight on the side of his face, and maybe that’s the Ceaseless Watcher burning at his skin, or maybe it’s just what it feels like to be regarded by the one you love. He reads the poem again, savouring each precious word that has somehow managed to pass down the centuries to him. How could anyone dare to risk damaging a book like this?

“It’s profound,” he finally finishes. He doesn’t want to look at Jon, sure that he will see derision there for his sentimentality, his deluded sense of romance. When Jon speaks, though, his voice is low and quiet, as if in revelation.

“I don’t think I deserve you, Martin.”

A holy fury rises in Martin’s throat, and he whips his head around to find Jon at his shoulder, staring up at him. His attention freezes him in place: from so close, the deep black-brown of his eyes is a pool he could fall into like the night sky, warm, welcoming, and all-encompassing. Even their uncanny green rings are entrancing, like a solar eclipse by which Martin would gladly be blinded, or a halo marking Jon’s gaze as sanctified. His warm, brown skin looks softer than silk, each bristle of greying stubble an accent mark upon his cheek, and Martin has to clench his fists on the book to stop himself from reaching up to caress it. Jon’s lips, thin as they are, form an inviting line, their delicate curves all the more precious for being understated, parted so slightly as to be almost imperceptible except from this close, an admission of tender, relaxed intimacy where he feels no need to frown, or purse, or demand answers.

Those lips deserve to be kissed, deserve to be worshipped, Martin thinks, should be lavished with minute attention; that mouth that has spoken such horrors has earned a loving respite. He wonders whether he would be able to feel how chapped they are with his own lips, whether he might taste toothpaste or tea or their dinner on Jon’s breath, or would need to press closer, to lick at where Jon’s lips are not dry, at the edges of his neat teeth, at his smooth, sour tongue. He wonders what sounds Jon would make — if he would make any at all — when Martin cupped broad hands around his jaw and opened their mouths; whether Jon would be forceful or shy in reciprocation, what he would want to taste first, whether he would tease or surprise; what it would be like to give himself over entirely to Jon’s lips, to throw himself on their altar and pray like they did in the churches he never understood in his youth, in a way that the Eye could never control, drowning and silencing them both in willing ecstasy.

With a jolt, Martin realises that he has been staring at Jon’s mouth for who knows how long. He forces himself to turn away, avoiding Jon’s captivating eyes, and clears his throat.

“Don’t —”

Jon beats him to it.

“Don’t say that about myself,” he smiles, “I know. Sorry.”

“Well don’t _apologise_ for it, either,” Martin retorts, fanning through the pages of Sappho, “that’s almost as bad!”

The laugh that blooms from Jon’s throat is low, and breathy, and _perfect._

“Right,” he says, deep and gorgeous and beguiling, “sorr—” Martin counts himself lucky that he only saw Jon lick his lips from the very corner of his eye. “Right.”

Martin sucks in a deep breath, and pushes it steadily out, grounding himself. He slips his makeshift bookmark between the pages and leans forward, out of Jon’s orbit, to drop it on the coffee table, deliberately trying to untense his limbs.

“Ready for bed?”

The little yellow flowers find a place on the bedroom mantelpiece, nestled beside Jon’s glasses. Lesser Spearwort, Jon informs him; it means nothing to Martin, beyond the all‑important fact that Jon felt the need to say it.

Only once they have settled, and the lights are out, and the weak moonlight lets them pick out no more than the vaguest outlines of each other, does Jon roll over towards the centre of the bed.

“Martin?” he breathes. Martin hums his acknowledgment. “Could I — I — I have an idea?”

“What is it?” Martin whispers back, turning his head so he can make out a glimpse of the green of Jon’s eyes darting back and forth as if… nervous?

“I just, um — I thought…” In an attempt at explanation, Jon shakes one hand out from under the covers and holds it out, hovering near Martin’s shoulder. “I was thinking, a-after last night. We should, um —”

Martin frowns, even if Jon probably can’t see him.

“Jon,” he says, “you’ve been — I mean, you’ve been, y’know, touching me every night. O-okay, that sounded bad, but —”

“I know what you meant,” Jon patiently interrupts. “And it didn’t end up doing much good, did it?”

“I wouldn’t sell it that short,” Martin gripes, heart fluttering. “Obviously we don’t have a — a — _control experiment,_ but I’m fairly sure it helped keep me al— keep me anchored.”

“Yes, but it clearly wasn’t _enough,”_ Jon growls. “Could I just —” He huffs out a frustrated breath and finishes as if hurrying out the words before he can regret them. “Would it be all right if I hugged you?”

Martin’s brain takes the opportunity to fizzle out, bluescreen, and slowly reboot.

Unfortunately, the first thing he can think to say after that is: “I’m pretty sure that’s called cuddling, Jon.”

Even in the dark, Martin can tell that Jon is rolling his eyes.

“Well, whatever it’s _called,”_ he drawls, “could we _try it?_ I just — I don’t want you wandering off again, not when I’m — not when I’m alread— not when I’m this tired. I don’t want to risk not waking up to catch you. And I thought that — well, m-more — more _extended_ contact, per se, might help to, to — a-alleviate some of the, um — some of the worst of uh… of — it.”

Martin imagines warm embraces and slow snogging, and then very promptly turns his mind to more practical matters. The worst thing is, Jon isn’t exactly wrong — it probably _would_ help — but at the same time, it would tread such a mortifyingly thin line, would feel almost like taking advantage to ask for…

But Martin isn’t asking, he reminds himself. Jon is offering. It’s different.

“Are you sure?” he asks, eyeing Jon’s hand, which still hangs promisingly close to his shoulder. “I — I wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

“No, no, of course,” Jon rushes to say, “of course not. I mean — if it would make _you_ uncomfortable, obviously, we don’t have to —”

“No, no, I’d be fine,” Martin says over him. “It’s a good idea.”

“S— s-so you’re sure?” says Jon, even as he shifts his weight closer to Martin. “I wouldn’t want to — c-cross any lines, or anything.”

“Jon?” Martin laughs to cover his nerves. “It’s fine. Honestly, it’s… genuinely a good idea, I think.” _I think,_ he repeats to himself, frantically scanning his subconscious for any dishonourable motives. But Jon has said that he’s comfortable with the idea, and it really might help with the Lonely, and Martin _certainly_ isn’t going to be putting his hands where they shouldn’t go or anything like that. They can make this platonic. They can make it work.

“Right,” Jon nods, and shifts himself closer, pushing up onto his elbow. “How should we…”

“Here —” Martin wriggles a bit to extract his right arm, turning inwards and opening himself up for Jon to lie on his shoulder, like when he woke him from his nightmares. That night, under the extremity of emotions, it had been easy to push over the bounds of propriety and act under a comforting impulse, to draw Jon close when he was hurt and crying. Tonight feels different — deliberate — and so much scarier because of it.

Jon knits his brow and stares down at him.

“Aren’t _I_ meant to be comforting _you?”_ he says, clearly thinking about the same night. Martin just shrugs.

“I’m still bigger than you,” he says. “Anyway, if you want to stop me wandering about, lying on top of me is probably a good start.”

Jon snorts a laugh and acquiesces, muttering, “True,” as he folds himself down and shuffles close to Martin’s side, trying and failing to find something to do with his lower arm. The other hand, his burned hand, slings itself across Martin’s middle, dislodging some blankets that Martin tugs back into a neater arrangement. It takes a moment, and a bit of negotiation, to get their legs arranged, and then Jon utterly devastates Martin’s psyche by shifting his head to find a comfortable angle, rubbing his cheek and nose against Martin’s collarbone and almost nuzzling into his chest. The hot water bottle has been abandoned on Jon’s side of the bed.

Martin could definitely die happy like this. He angles himself enough to be able to drape his upper arm around Jon’s back, with the chill night air trying to bite his fingers near the edge of the covers, and cranes his neck so he doesn’t have Jon’s hair sticking up his nose. At last, he settles down to sleep, as with a long, low hum, Jon relaxes against him, one swathe of warmth against Martin’s right side, engulfing his arm, chest, stomach, and hip, and poking in over his leg.

“M-hm,” Jon mumbles into Martin’s shirt. “Has anyone ever told you you’re extremely comfortable?”

Martin gives an easy, tired chuckle. “What, just because I’m _naturally cushioned?”_

Jon groans his disapproval.

 _“No,”_ he says, digging his nose into the front of Martin’s shoulder as his voice goes awkward. “You’re just — I don’t know. Good at this, I suppose.”

Martin pinches his back in retaliation, through three layers of shirts, prompting an annoyed sound and a moment of squirming.

“One, calm down, it’s not a test so you can’t fail it,” he murmurs, “and two, you’re perfectly comfortable yourself. Okay? Now good _night.”_

Jon huffs out a breath, and briefly tightens his hold on Martin; but he also doesn’t argue, and Martin calls that a win against his perpetual self-doubt and emotional constipation.

If Martin dreams, he doesn’t remember it in the morning. All he does know, is that he didn’t dream of fog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I overthink the flower thing and find something that both grows in the Scottish mountains and could feasibly still have a few blooms in early October? [Maybe so.](https://www.scottishwildflowers.org/flower/lesser-spearwort/)
> 
> Sappho poems in this chapter are Lobel-Page 2 'Leave Crete and sweep to this blest temple', Voigt/L-P33 'Since I have cast my lot, please, golden-crowned', V81/L-P81-82 'Now, Dika, weave the aniseed together, flower and stem', V53 'Untainted Graces', and V/L-P147 'I declare'; the Aaron Poochigian translations (Penguin, 2009). V81 and 147 are in the chapter, but I've included the full texts for the others below, since there's no good online source for these versions (however [this](http://inamidst.com/stuff/sappho) is a pretty good source on Sappho overall).
> 
> Come talk to me at [@cuddlytogas](https://cuddlytogas.tumblr.com) on Tumblr!
> 
> LP2: 'Leave Crete...'  
> Leave Crete and sweep to this blest temple  
> Where apple-orchard's elegance  
> Is yours, and smouldering altars, ample  
> Frankincense.
> 
> Here under boughs a bracing spring  
> Percolates, roses without number  
> Umber the earth and, rustling,  
> The leaves drip slumber.
> 
> Here budding flowers possess a sunny  
> Pasture where steeds could graze their fill,  
> And the breeze feels as gentle as honey...
> 
> Kypris, here in the present blend  
> Your nectar with pure festal glee.  
> Fill gilded bowls and pass them round  
> Lavishly.
> 
> V/LP33: 'Since I have cast...'  
> Since I have cast my lot, please, golden-crowned  
> Aphrodite, let me win this round!
> 
> V53: 'Untainted Graces...'  
> Untainted Graces  
> With wrists like roses,  
> Please come close,  
> You daughters of Zeus.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Basira learns about Martin's secret, Jenny gets the wrong idea, and a revelatory walk is taken.

_“No,_ Basira, he hasn’t tried to attack anyone, and I don’t appreciate you putting it like that!”

Martin avoids Jon’s eye as he snaps into the receiver, a not insignificant achievement considering that they are both squashed into the same phone box. Jon is crammed in next to the body of the phone, while Martin cranes over him at the end of the cord’s reach, one foot holding the door open and stuck outside in the light rain.

“Don’t be naïve, Martin,” is Basira’s stoic, crackly reply. “You know it’s only a matter of time.”

“Sure, _maybe,”_ Martin insists, “but you don’t need to say it like he’s some kind of —” He cuts himself off with a glance at Jon’s dour expression, and sighs through his nose. “Look, that’s not the point,” he continues. “The point is, I can look after him, and — and he can look after _himself,_ actually, and — and we’re not going to let him harm anyone else!”

“You can’t blame me for being suspicious of that,” says Basira. “You more than anyone are likely to end up enabling him.”

“That’s not even true!” Martin’s voice is going high with frustration. “I gave you the tape, didn’t I? When that woman came in?”

“You could have come to us yourself rather than leaving cryptic notes,” Basira retorts, remarkably calm. “You could have confronted him.”

“Well, I’m sorry for having other things on,” Martin says, rolling his eyes. “Like, oh, I don’t know, _stopping Peter Lukas from disappearing anyone else while I tried to figure out his master plan.”_

“Right, that’s _enough!”_ Jon barks. “Jesus, the two of you…” He extracts one arm from where they’re crossed tightly over his chest, and holds a hand out for the phone. “Let me speak to her.”

Martin sighs again; Jon is right. He just doesn’t like being reminded of how thin the veneer of comfort and normality on their lives really is.

He holds onto the phone a moment longer.

“Sorry for snapping,” he makes himself say. “You just don’t need to worry — we can handle it.”

“Right,” Basira sighs, more subdued than before. “Good.”

“Here’s Jon,” Martin says, and hands over the receiver. The outside edges of their hands brush in the exchange, and Martin very determinedly blames his shiver on the draught from outside.

“Basira,” Jon says in greeting, with a tone of heavy relief. “It’s good to hear from you.”

Martin strains to hear her reply, catching an indistinct impression of her voice. Jon gives a soft laugh, and Martin is satisfied.

“The investigation at the Institute is closing,” Jon relays to Martin, angling the receiver away from his mouth. “She should be able to get into the archives in the next few days.”

A sigh of relief escapes Martin’s chest. “That’s good,” he says. “And she’ll send some statements up for you?”

“Yes,” says Jon, adding into the phone, “Thank you, Basira. I know none of this is ideal.”

“Yeah, well,” Martin hears through the phone, “one day we’ll have to deal with Elias, and what all of this shit means, but for now we just do what we can to make sure you two are safe.”

“Okay,” Martins says aloud, at the same time Jon responds with, “Understood.”

“And you’ve done what I said?” Basira goes on, Jon angling the speaker away from his ear so Martin can listen in. “About the work IDs?”

“I’ve got short hair again,” Jon grumbles, with a curl of his lip. “It’s awful.”

“Don’t listen to him, Basira,” Martin calls at the phone, “he looks fine.”

Jon scrunches his nose up at Martin, who smiles beatifically back, secure in the knowledge that he’s right.

“Did you know that Martin’s glasses were fake this whole time?” Jon says into the phone, eyes still locked on Martin’s. They’re both going glasses-free in the village, in deference to Basira’s advice, but the accusation remains in Jon’s glare.

“Yes?” says Basira, with an audible frown. “What, and you _didn’t?”_

Jon’s face falls, and Martin struggles to restrain his grin.

 _“No!”_ says Jon. “How would I have known that?!”

“He’s hipster scum, Jon, of course they’re fake.”

“Hey!” Martin cries, but he’s overridden.

“Besides, he doesn’t take good enough care of them for them to be prescription,” Basira is saying. “And they’re visibly not bifocals, but he never takes them off for either reading _or_ distance. And I really can’t stress enough the hipster angle.”

“It’s not a hipster thing!” Martin argues. “I just think they look nice, that’s not a crime!”

“Anyway, you shouldn’t be using your real names in public,” Basira admonishes, bluntly changing the subject.

“There’s no one around,” Jon starts, but Basira stops him.

 _“That you know of._ Just — be careful. All right?”

“All right,” Jon mutters. Then, more softly: “Thank you.”

Martin hears her hum on the other end of the line.

“You’re not on your honeymoon,” she says sternly, “but look after each other. Statements should be on their way in a few days.”

“Take care,” Jon says, then pulls sharply back from the phone, staring at it. “She hung up on me!”

Martin snorts, and gently takes the phone from Jon’s hand to place it back on the hook. “Yeah, she’ll do that,” he says with a smile, stretching his arm to retrieve their change. “So, where to first — butcher’s?”

By the time they’ve got all the fresh food (including Thomas's newly-acquired, halal-certified options) and are heading to the Spar for the last essentials, Jon’s knees are going wobbly, and Martin overrides his complaints and swaps around the bags and groceries so Jon is carrying the least and lightest of their things. They browse the quiet aisles, overwarm as the fine layer of rain on their clothes dissolves into the heated air of the shop, while Jon picks up flour, digestives, and a jar of paprika.

“I thought we already had paprika?” Martin frowns as Jon drops it into his basket.

“We have _smoked_ paprika,” Jon corrects. “This is sweet paprika. There’s a difference. Oh, and I need cloves…”

Jon moves further up the shelf, and Martin watches him pluck at cloves and aniseed, and thinks about garlands again. He looks away, deliberately, eyes finding the boxy, muted television in the corner broadcasting the midday news. As he watches, the newsreader cuts to a shot of the columns of the Magnus Institute, strung up with police tape like a shopping centre at Christmas.

Martin bites his tongue against Jon’s name, and nudges Jon’s foot with his toe. Jon hums his acknowledgement, and glances up at Martin’s face. He clearly reads the worry there, and follows his gaze just as the television screen changes to a pair of photographs, with a large header reading ‘MISSING’ and two familiar names underneath, a scrolling banner at the bottom showing the phone numbers for police departments and tip lines.

“Oh,” Jon says simply, face going blank, and Martin breathes, “Yeah,” as they stare at their past selves.

The men on the screen are hardly recognisable. Martin was young when he joined the Institute, and hadn’t yet started on T, and looking at the photo above, he can’t believe he actually sold himself as twenty-five. He looks baby-faced compared to what he’s used to: under the layer of fat, he can tell how much more definition he has now in his jaw and brow, and even the pitiful shadow of stubble he gets between shaves looks different to the smooth chin of the photo. That Martin has a short, dark afro buzzed neatly at the sides, and bags under his eyes from a late shift at his second job the night before, and is smiling cheerfully, covering his relief at finally landing a full-time job and his terror at being found out.

And Jon — well…

The man in the photo is a young, healthy, dark-skinned Pakistani man, with long black hair piled up at the back of his head and only just showing a strand or two of silver. He wears neat, rectangular glasses and small gold rings in his earlobes, and his skin is unblemished but for a spot of acne. He almost looks his age — mid twenties at most — and though he looks professionally serious, he doesn’t have the forbidding expression of solemn superiority he adopted when he became Head Archivist, nor the hollow cheeks and bruised eyes of the half dead that Martin has grown used to. His heart breaks to see the difference.

“I can’t believe I thought you were over _thirty,”_ Jon murmurs, as the image changes to a professional headshot of Daisy in police uniform, and a media photo of Peter Lukas at some posh donor’s event, flute of champagne in hand and false smile plastered on his face. Martin shudders with a familiar chill; God, he hates that smile.

“In your defence,” he says to Jon, turning away from the screen, “I looked a lot older by the time I met you.”

Jon huffs a laugh and scans the shelves again, fingers wiggling in the air as he searches.

“Don’t give me _too_ much credit,” he says, “I was pretty oblivious.”

“Yeah, but you also _hated_ me,” Martin laughs. “I’m surprised you didn’t go on a paranoid spiral about it long before any of the stuff with Prentiss.”

Neither of them hear the footsteps behind them, until a warm, sharp voice is saying, “You must be Samir! Chris’s partner!”

Jon stiffens, and Martin freezes for a fraction of a second in surprise before catching himself, and turning with a smile.

“Hi, Jenny,” he says, trying to inject just enough sarcasm into his voice to convey friendly admonishment without being confrontational. “Fiancé. I told you he was real.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you at last,” Jenny smiles, holding out her hand, and Jon awkwardly leans around Martin to shake it with a flat-looking smile.

“Good to meet you,” he mumbles, then more strongly adds, “Do you have any black cumin seeds?”

Martin frowns. “I thought I bought that already?!”

“We’ve got _regular_ cumin seeds, yes,” Jon explains a bit impatiently. “Black cumin is different.”

“God, it’s like the paprika,” Martin mutters. Beside him, Jenny snorts, and plants her hands on her hips.

“I can see why you didn’t want me to meet him,” she says. “Demanding bloke, isn’t he?”

“Black cumin seed isn’t a _demand,”_ Jon bristles, and Martin shrugs on his behalf, adopting a calmer tone.

“He’s a very good cook,” he says, “so I think ‘demanding’ is worth it.”

Jenny laughs again, and Jon visibly tenses up; Martin wishes his hands weren’t so full of groceries.

“Well, I’m very sorry,” Jenny says, immune to Jon’s ire, “but we don’t have black cumin seeds. I can order some in for you, if you like?”

Jon’s annoyance immediately subsides.

“Oh, um,” he stammers with a glance at Martin, “we, um — I-I don’t know how long we — until…”

“Probably don’t bother,” Martin explains for him. “We don’t know how long we’re staying here, and I wouldn’t want you to order something in special just for us to leave before it gets here.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” she coos. “It wouldn’t take months, you know. Are you leaving us so soon?”

“We’re not sure, that’s all,” Martin smiles.

“There are — circumstances…” Jon adds, as if that’s at all helpful.

“Oh.” Jenny doesn’t look convinced. “Well, let me know if you decide to stay for longer, and I’ll see what I can do.”

They both nod; then all of a sudden, Jon is sighing out a breath and staggering, shifting one foot back to catch himself like he might fall. Jenny’s hands immediately fall from her hips, and Martin’s stomach drops, as he less than carefully sets down the shopping to get his hands under Jon’s elbows. His tongue is about to form his name on instinct when he remembers that they have aliases here, and he course-corrects at the last second to the first word he can think of that makes the same shape in his mouth.

“Love, are you okay?”

Jon is weak in his grip, already barely holding himself up, but he spares enough energy to stare up at Martin like he’s uttered pure heresy, brows creased and mouth wide. Martin bites his lip, very glad that Jenny is behind him and can’t see him desperately trying to convey an apology with his eyes.

“You all right, dear?” she is saying, as she rounds Martin’s shoulder and both men try to school themselves.

“Fine,” Jon murmurs, shaking his head and gaining his footing, but not pulling away from Martin’s hands. “I just —”

But he doesn’t seem capable of finishing the sentence, instead closing his eyes with a heavy breath and going limper in Martin’s arms. Quickly, efficiently, Martin detaches one hand long enough to coax the basket from Jon’s hand and place it on the floor before he pulls closer and lets Jon support himself against his chest.

“What can I do to help?” Jenny says with the confidence of long experience, and Martin is inexpressibly glad for her tactfulness.

“Just some water, please,” he says, as a fine tremor starts up in Jon’s hands where they are folded against Martin’s stomach. “And we’re going to need more petrol for the generator.”

Jenny holds his gaze for a moment — glances at Jon — and nods her understanding, hurrying off towards the door at the back of the shop. Martin waits a few seconds until he hears the hush and squeak of the hydraulic door closer, then ducks his head to put his mouth by Jon’s ear.

“Sorry about that,” he whispers, followed quickly by, “What’s wrong?”

Jon shakes his head, hair brushing at Martin’s chin.

“Just…” he breathes back, and squeezes his eyes shut — _“hungry.”_

Martin’s heart breaks, and he wraps his arms around Jon in a proper hug. He can feel Jon relaxing slightly, his own hands drifting down to hook weakly at Martin’s sides in return, but he doesn’t seem to get any steadier.

“She’s sending statements,” Martin whispers, knowing Jon will understand whether he wants to or not.

“I know,” Jon replies. “Don’t worry — it’s not serious. I-it’ll pass.”

“You’re _sure?”_

“I’m sure.”

They hold on for another minute or two, until Jon’s limbs have stopped shivering and he can pull back to stand on his own. Jenny returns around the same time, with a ten-litre can in one hand and a glass of water in the other, her steps hesitant and ready to retreat if necessary.

“Thanks, Jenny,” Martin sighs gratefully, while Jon reaches for the glass and drains it in three large draughts, panting harshly between them. Martin can see a million questions whirring behind Jenny’s eyes, but she doesn’t voice any of them, just takes back the glass with a careful, upward tilt of her mouth.

“If there’s anything else,” she says softly, “just ask.”

“We will,” Martin smiles. “Thank you.”

She takes the glass away, back to whatever kitchen sink it came from, giving Jon enough time to recover himself and hoist the basket again. Martin takes up their shopping and the petrol can, and they find the last of their things in silence, and though Jenny is politely cheerful at the checkout, she farewells them with a meaningful smile, calling, “Don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything.” They leave the village quickly, only slowing when they reach the gravelly intersection, and idle past the Stewarts’ cows as the drizzle turns to a fine mist of rain.

Martin clicks his tongue. “So,” he says tentatively — “Jenny definitely thinks you have cancer.”

Jon snorts a laugh. “I thought _I_ was the one with mind powers?”

“Wait, really?” Martin asks, whipping around to stare at him. “She genuinely thinks you have cancer?”

Jon nods, saying, “Either cancer and I’m refusing chemotherapy, or something nebulously wrong with my blood.”

“Oh my God,” Martin groans, “she thinks we’re some kind of horrible indie film about dying gracefully just before you can get married…”

“If it helps, she’s a _bit_ more practical than that,” says Jon, turning for one last glance of the dark grey cow near the front corner of the field, watching them go. “She had an uncle who died of liver cancer, and her grandmother struggled with breast cancer. She doesn’t think we’re an indie film.”

“Well, that’s a relief, at least,” Martin sighs. “Still. Feels bad to let her go on believing something like that. Especially if she knows what it’s like, God.”

“Would the truth be of any comfort to her?” Jon drawls, and Martin has to concede the point. They lapse into silence until they pass Lost, and Martin forces Jon to agree to tell him if he feels that bad again. Not that there’s much he’ll be able to do about it, but the last thing he wants is Jon trying to stoically hide his pain.

The rain has thoroughly chilled them by the time they get back, and Jon seems as grateful for the idea as Martin is for his assent when he suggests another bath. They share the water this time, Jon going first while Martin builds up the fires, and Martin has to remind himself that millions of people have suffered far worse than second-hand bathwater before he adds a bit more from the kettle and climbs into the soapy, slightly scummy water.

Jon cooks something spicy and creamy for dinner that night, while the sun sets and Martin idly sweeps the cottage, occasionally sticking his nose into the kitchen to offer his help. He finishes Sappho in the candlelight of evening and rereads his early favourites, glad for the poor lighting that helps to hide his blushes, and by the time they go to bed, Jon doesn’t bother with the hot water bottle, warm as it is after they've left the fires burning for so long. He stammers out the start of an offer, and Martin breathes a sigh of relief, agreeing before he can ask.

They fall asleep tangled up in each other. Martin is restless for no reason, dozing lightly and waking at one point to find himself face to face with Jon’s trembling green gaze muted behind his eyelids, a stark contrast to his arm wrapped around Martin’s shoulders in protection. Half-asleep, Martin shifts his arms and discovers that his left hand is curled over Jon’s slight waist, and he drifts off again amidst a blanketing sense of satisfaction.

Jon is suspiciously chipper the next morning, and Martin can’t tell if it’s an act, or he really has recovered from yesterday’s bout of withdrawal. They breakfast on jam and toast and run the generator for a few hours to recharge the house’s battery. Jon dives into an Agatha Christie, but declares it inadequate after fifty pages.

“But it’s _Agatha Christie,”_ Martin insists, following Jon around the living room as he re-shelves the book in disgust. “She’s a literary icon!”

“I’m sure that she is,” says Jon, crouching down to scan the lower shelves. “But I’ve already read a Poirot and two Miss Marples, and after that, they’re all the same.”

Martin crosses his arms and huffs. “A lot of people would beg to differ.”

“A lot of people aren’t me, trying to find a decent book in the middle of nowhere,” Jon drones in disgust, rising stiffly to his feet, still bookless. He sighs at the shelves, and looks up at Martin. “Walk?”

Martin presses his lips together, trying not to give in too easily.

“We don’t know how long we’ve got here, Jon,” he says. “You might have to get used to rereading books.”

Jon screws up his nose. “I’ll start ripping up the garden first.”

“But it’s nice!”

“It’s an overgrown mess,” Jon scoffs, “and it’d be something to do, at least.”

“There has to be a second hand shop in the village,” Martin says. “Maybe we can look for some new books for you next time we’re there.”

“Oh, no,” Jon groans, “Jenny’s going to look at me like I’m dying again. I won’t be able to stand it, I’ll have to tell her the truth.”

“Remember, Jon, we can’t tell the nice old lady from the shop that we’re on the run from the law.”

“Needs must when the devil drives,” Jon replies darkly, apparently entirely sincere, making Martin chuckle.

“All right, fine,” he says. “Let me get my boots.”

Outside, the rain has subsided, leaving a blustery, overcast day behind it. The sun struggles to push through a blanket of cloud, white and flat in the blaze of late morning with the occasional cluster of grey rolling towards the horizon, arresting any warmth before it can reach the ground. They are left only with an unpredictable wind whipping at their exposed skin, biting Jon’s nose and the ends of Martin’s ears, as the clouds above shift and roil almost imperceptibly quickly. Jon takes the pink, bobbled hat, grumbling about how cold it is with such short hair, and Martin insists that he wear the green scarf, winding his own dark, muted red one around his coat collar.

They strike out into the field behind the cottage first, up the rise, until they reach the impression of a fence around one of the green fields of Lost, little more than a few weathered posts holding up a collapsing wire. Then they turn towards the sun, skirting the field and admiring its scattered sheep from afar until they reach a squiggle of a dirt path worn into the low grass, which leads over the hill and down into another valley more knobbly and rocky than Daisy’s choice.

The path takes them across a doubled dirt trail made by tractor tyres, then a tinkling creek little more than a glorified storm drain, before it shoots out alongside a cleared field. The smell of fresh earth pervades the air here, worlds away from the rot of the Corruption, and Martin breathes deeply of it, only slightly regretting his choice when the stench of fertiliser joins the mix. The face he makes sparks a laugh from Jon which seems to surprise him, if the way he covers his mouth immediately afterwards is anything to judge by.

The field gradually becomes a hedgerow, then a copse of pine trees, and Jon excitedly leads them down a fork to take them through a slightly larger plantation. The bristly grey trunks enclose them enough to be warm without being claustrophobic, shielding them from the worst of the wind, and for ten minutes, Martin can’t decide where to look, constantly turning one way then another to peer through the trees at the ever-shifting view between them, the glimpses of fields and valleys on either side. The exertion has been just enough to raise a prickle of sweat around his collar and the small of his back, tickling against his scarf and battling with the chilly air.

When they reach the edge of the trees, they find a muddy road wide enough for cars, and Jon marches ahead and takes a sharp left, investigating for oncoming traffic and potential destinations. It leaves Martin alone to step into the open air where the wind buffets around him, smothering his hearing and sweeping up the smell of pine needles, rain, and dirt. He closes his eyes and lets the scent engulf him, swirling and encircling him on the fickle breeze. There is peace here, in the sudden release from the muffling embrace of the trees, both louder and quieter at once: louder, with the roar of the wind ebbing and flowing about him, and quieter without the crunch of footsteps, the chirping of birds, and the crackle and creak of the gently shifting trees.

Martin opens his eyes to a sweeping view of the shallow valley, lit in broad, muted greens by the pale sun. He gazes across a meadow and harvested field to the edge of a forest, where a low, grey fog is creeping around the roots of the trees.

Martin’s heart sinks. It’s almost noon, and only October; there shouldn’t be any fog.

He thinks about bosun’s calls, and grits his teeth.

“Jon?” he calls, without taking his eyes away from the fog lest it creep up on him when he isn’t looking.

“Hm?” comes Jon’s response from off to his left, closer to the road.

With a hard swallow, Martin focuses on the warmth in his chest, like a crowded pub in winter, loud with Tim’s laughter and the harmony of Sasha’s as he knows it must have been, but not as he remembers. He clenches his fists, and envisions the silhouette of Melanie standing firm between him and a monster.

He remembers the smell of the sea, and Jon’s green eyes, and the feeling of _love_ suffusing his whole being in its absolute certainty.

“What is it, Martin?” Jon asks, coming closer now, mud squelching under his borrowed boots. Martin turns to look at him, two metres away, rubbing his hands together against the cold. With his head at this angle, the wind no longer deafens Martin, letting in the more distant sounds of tractors and the calls of birds. There is a familiar pull in his chest, a tugging sensation under his ribs, and he feels his face relax into a smile. The fog can’t get to him, not here; not when, all of a sudden, it is so fantastically easy to will it away.

“I’m sorry,” Martin says, without thinking. Jon stops, and frowns in befuddlement, glancing around them as if expecting to see whatever insult he has supposedly been given.

“Um — that’s fine?” he says. “…What for?”

Martin sighs, shifting on his feet to face Jon. He thanked Jon in Aberdeen; now it is time for apologies.

“I’m sorry it fell to you,” he explains. “To pull me out? O-of the Lonely, that is.”

Jon goes very still at that. He narrows his eyes at Martin.

“Don’t apologise for that,” he says, low and serious, having to shout a little over the wind. “I told you, it was practically selfish of me.”

“No it wasn’t,” Martin laughs through his sigh. “Anyway, I don’t mean sorry that you had to, just — I’m sorry it had to be _you._ You’ve been through enough, you know? And Forsaken’s not exactly a nice place to be. But I guess…” He gives a wide shrug, throwing out his hands a little with the grief of it, tossing their sorrow to the breeze. “With our lives being what they are now, everyone’s kind of dead. There wasn’t anyone else to do it.”

“Of course there wasn’t,” Jon scowls, “that’s _why_ Lukas targeted you. It’s hardly your fault.”

“I know that,” Martin huffs loudly through his frustration. “I’m just saying, it’s a responsibility you shouldn’t have had to carry. I’m grateful, obviously I am, and I know it wasn’t necessarily a huge sacrifice for you, you didn’t have to pull out a rib or anything — but you still suffered for it. And I’ve never been able to make many friends, especially at the Institute, and with Tim and Sasha gone, and I never had the chance to get all that close with anyone else — you were the only friend left. And I’m sorry about that.”

But Jon’s expression only deepens, the glower turning aside in confusion as he takes half a step forward.

 _“Friend?”_ he repeats. Martin swallows his embarrassment, and shrugs.

“Well, yeah.”

“Martin —” Jon’s jaw hangs open for a second, and he rears back, eyes darting, at a loss for words that Martin doesn’t understand. It’s the same olive branch that Martin offered after they stepped back into London, but Jon’s acting like it’s a very poor façade, baffling even in the attempt.

Jon shuts his mouth, steadies himself, and says very firmly, “Martin, it was me for a reason.”

Martin rolls his eyes.

“Well yeah, obviously, you’re _the Archivist_ and all that,” he says, with a little waggle of his fingers at Jon’s spooky title, “probably no one else would’ve even been able to get in, or lead us out, but — I mean, you don’t know that for sure.”

“No, not _that —”_ Jon steps sharply forward, then stops himself, amending the sentence. “Well, yes, probably that, a bit, but — but it’s not _just_ that.”

Martin’s brow furrows. What on _earth?_

“Erm,” he says, very eloquently — “well, what else would it be?”

Jon stands there for a moment, still well over an arm’s reach away, his mouth moving soundlessly for a long moment as if so taken aback that he has no reaction. Martin just frowns through it; he seems to be making this whole thing a lot more complicated than it needs to be. Martin’s feelings aside — and he’s long since learned how to set them there — it seems very simple to him. He only wanted to be clear that Jon’s suffering wasn’t taken for granted.

At last, Jon seems to find the words, and pulls himself together.

“Martin, I love you!”

 _Well, duh,_ Martin thinks, as without his permission, a laugh falls from his lips.

“I know _that,”_ he chuckles. “What did you think you were showing me, a recipe for fudge?”

“Well if you know it,” Jon snaps a little wildly, “what’s all this nonsense about _friendship?”_

“Um, love and friendship usually go together,” Martin tuts, crossing his arms. This is getting ridiculous. “Why are you acting so weird about it?”

“I don’t love you as a _friend!”_ Jon practically shouts, so worked up he looks outright offended now. “I thought I showed you that! I told you to look!”

“And I _did_ look!” Martin returns, getting angry now. “And I saw — w— I saw love! Obviously! I’m sorry the Eye wasn’t more _specific_ than that! What the hell was I _meant_ to see, some kind of blessed union of Archivist and Assistant? Jesus, I was only trying to say something nice —”

“Martin, I am _in love with you!”_

Martin stills, staring at Jon. He knows his expression must be going blank, probably because his entire mind has been wiped clean by Jon’s words. It isn’t true — it _can’t_ be true — but Jon wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t — but _it can’t be true —_

For a long, long moment, Martin waits for his brain to process, and restart. It might as well be hours, as far as he’s concerned; the very idea means he has to rearrange some pretty fundamental assumptions about the universe, and very specifically about their situation here and now, about the last week and half, the last six months or so. Jon… what?

Jon is huffing angrily now, a flimsy cover for embarrassment, as he crosses his arms tightly over his skinny chest, seeming all the smaller when swamped by Martin’s jacket. He is looking firmly away, out at the forest where the fog has surely beaten a hasty retreat, his hair fluttering messily in the wind.

Martin tilts his head to one side, as if that might give him a perspective that will let all of this make sense.

“Wh— … What?”

Jon sucks on his teeth, not meeting Martin’s eye. “You heard me,” he spits. “I don’t need to repeat it for the sake of your schadenfreude.”

“No, I think you definitely need to repeat it,” Martin says with a nervous laugh. “That’s not right,” he continues, before Jon can say anything that might secure Martin’s worldview in this flipped position. _“I’m_ in love with _you,_ not the other way around.”

Jon’s eyes snap to him, wide and frowning in bewilderment. “No you’re not.”

“Um, yes I am,” Martin counters, aware of how silly it sounds, but also aware that it’s the best argument he has against Jon’s absurd denial. “Of course I am, I have been for ages. Everyone knows that!”

“Well _I_ clearly don’t!” Jon cries, with a theatrically large shrug.

“I thought you listened to the tapes!”

“I _do_ listen to the tapes!”

“Well then —” Martin _really_ doesn’t want to think about Jonah Magnus any more than necessary, but it seems like he has no choice. “You would’ve heard the one with Elias, while you were in Yarmouth — _he_ certainly knew about it!”

“That was over a year ago!”

“Oh, I’m sorry you think I’m so fickle —”

“I was _dead_ for half of it!” Jon doesn’t stop yelling, though he does make a sudden switch in track. “I asked you to run away with me, surely _that_ was a bit of a clue!”

“Yeah, by _gouging our eyes out_ to escape our _literally evil psychic boss,”_ Martin retorts, “I think I can be forgiven for considering that you might have had other motives! Anyway, what do you think _I’ve_ been doing all this time, just playing our magic bosses against each for _fun?_ I was trying to keep you alive! Because I love you!”

“Well so was I!” Jon shouts, throwing his arms in the air. “Now what?!”

Martin breathes hard for a few seconds, thrown off-balance by that. It’s a good question, good enough that Jon also doesn’t seem to know the answer. There’s something needling at the back of Martin’s mind, however, and he frowns, wide and grimacing.

“Hang on,” he says, holding up one finger. “Hang on. _Why_ would you think I’m not in love with you anymore? I know it’s been a while, but — I mean, I’m not exactly subtle.” It briefly occurs to him that he should probably be more embarrassed at saying such things, but judging by the dark flush over Jon’s face, he is mortified enough for both of them.

Jon shrugs again, slightly hysterically.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, with a heavily sardonic lilt, “maybe because you’ve been avoiding me since I woke up? Telling me not to contact you?”

Martin glares. “You _know_ that was because of the Lonely,” he says. “I didn’t want Peter focusing on you. You’d better have something more than _that.”_

“Wh—” Jon stammers at the air for a moment, hands flailing, before he sends a pleading look at Martin and falls still with a sigh. All the bluster and anger is gone now, and his face is creased in apology, pulled down at the edges with abject worry. It seems to take a great effort before he can speak again, even though his words, when they come, are remarkably simple.

“‘Loved’,” he says. “Past tense. That’s what you said: ‘I really loved you’.” He swallows, and licks his dry, chapped lips, as realisation drips cold and oily down the back of Martin’s throat. “Can you blame me for thinking that meant your feelings had changed?”

Martin takes a slow, difficult breath, steadying himself against the regret building in his chest.

“We were in the Lonely, Jon,” he tries to explain, discovering only then that he has lost all strength for the argument, his voice falling to just above the level of the wind. “I was dying. Of course it felt like past tense in there.”

Jon lets out a shaky exhale through his nose, tangling his arms up over his chest again.

“Yes, well,” he mutters — “forgive me for wanting to respect your wishes.” For a moment, he closes his eyes and sighs again, speaking before Martin has the chance to form a response. “I thought — I thought, maybe, the combination of — of what I’ve become, a-and your time in the Lonely… Those things together, I thought they must have changed how you felt about me. I — I woke up, and you were gone, and from then on, it just felt… it felt like I was losing you. Like I’d lost you, for good, maybe. I thought I’d missed my chance.”

Martin’s heart is breaking in his chest.

“And you still came after me?” he says quietly. “You still stayed here, you shared the bed, thinking that I’d —” It feels hypocritical to finish that thought; he tries his first again. “You still risked all that to save me?”

Jon gives him a sad smile.

“Like I said,” he all but hums: “I love you. It didn’t matter whether you loved me back, of course I had to save you.” He swallows, and maybe it’s just the cold and the wind, but Martin is sure that Jon’s eyes are welling up just as his own are starting to sting. They stand like that, metres apart, just staring at each other in this new light. Somewhere behind the numbness of the revelation, Martin can feel a thrill of possibility at the back of his mind and tickling down his spine, a few, old butterflies stirring in his stomach. He looks at Jon, small and vulnerable and baring his heart, at the sharp, copper-coloured face that he has loved through all of its scars, and although nothing at all has changed, certainly none of it is the same as it was.

Martin licks his lips, and looks down and away.

“So…” he says, hoarse and tight.

With the soft crunch of mud and pine needles, he hears Jon take one, slow step closer, then another, and one more, until his left hand is held out just within Martin’s field of vision. He looks up, and Jon is right there, within arm’s reach, his serious expression softened by an uncharacteristic frankness, and a vulnerability that Martin is just learning to understand.

“Let’s try this again?” Jon says, so quiet and gentle that it is almost lost in the wind, except that they are close enough, and he is strong enough, to let it be heard. Martin thinks about those first days out of the Lonely, and the constant presence of Jon’s hands, and longs only to feel his palm against his once more.

He reaches out and slowly, carefully slides his fingers over Jon’s. He brushes across Jon’s slender palm, and the one, dimpled worm scar that sits low on the base of his thumb. _Wrists like roses,_ Martin thinks, and perhaps he’s being sentimental, but he’s fairly sure that the different brown tones of their skin are complementary.

Jon’s fingers start to curl, and at last, Martin follows that pull in his chest, and steps closer so they can twine their arms together, their hands grasping without having to think about it, palm to palm, with fingers interlocked. It feels like a gear dropping into place, like a whole, complex mechanism finally able to run smoothly; like everything is suddenly right in their souls.

More sentimental nonsense, Martin thinks; but he’s not letting go any time soon. He lets out a breath like easing the weight of the world from his shoulders, and closes his eyes, leaning in until his chin and cheek are resting on the soft, pink hat, and his left arm has come up to encircle Jon's shoulders. At the same time, Jon’s free hand digs its way in under Martin’s open coat, and he enfolds his arm around his waist, smoothing his open hand against the back of Martin’s jumper.

There’s really only one thing Martin can say.

“I love you, Jon.”

He feels the shiver as Jon gives a near-silent laugh.

“I love you too.”

They stand for a long time at the edge of the trees, absorbing this new reality. After fifteen quiet minutes, the wind picks up slightly, pulling at their scarves and the hood of Martin’s coat, and they quietly agree to head back. Before they part, Martin takes the opportunity to indulge himself and cup his free hand over Jon’s cheek, where the growing beard scratches at his palm. Jon sighs and closes his eyes as if in the extremity of bliss, and Martin is sure that whatever worship he has been giving at Jon’s altar has been thoroughly rewarded.

As they walk, Martin tries to find the words for how his heart is feeling. There are the obvious metaphors — light, skipping, soaring — which are apt, but don’t quite feel like enough. Holding hands with Jon as he leads him on a different route around the trees and various fields, up one hill and down another, all he can think is that the world has opened up; that there is a sudden superfluity in the world, an excess of possibility. Jon keeps getting ahead of him, his quick steps throwing them slightly off-balance, but neither of them is willing to let go just for the sake of Jon’s pace, not with the bubble of happy potential between them. Linked by the hands and determinedly saved, it feels like those first few days out of the Lonely, except that Martin only feels cold from the wind and shuttered sky, and neither of them is waiting for it to end.

It’s strange to get what he’s wanted for two years but assumed he’d never have. Doubt skirts at the edges of Martin’s thoughts, a weight he carries out of habit, as if his subconscious expects at any moment for Jon to turn around, realise what they are doing, and recoil in disgust, or to simply change his mind and say that he didn’t mean any of it.

Martin shoves those thoughts away as they walk, an easy enough task when all he has to do is wriggle his fingers in Jon’s to receive a darting, bashful smile over Jon’s shoulder in return, the kind of surprised, delighted expression that says that Jon is half expecting things to go wrong as well, and appreciates the reassurance. Martin thinks about kissing Jon’s cheek while they walk, and though he chickens out, he still pulls closer for a moment, giving himself the opportunity.

As they crest the final, green rise and the cottage comes into view, Jon beats him to it anyway, by stopping to raise their joined hands and pressing a hard, messy kiss to the back of Martin’s knuckles. It makes Martin’s face go hot, and judging from Jon’s shy, smug expression, he can tell that Martin’s blushing, and is very pleased by it. All of a sudden, Martin feels a lot less self-conscious about that particular tendency.

“We, um,” Jon says with sudden energy — “we should probably talk seriously, you know. Boundaries, and such.”

“I know,” Martin sighs. Jon nods, and turns to set off again, but Martin tugs him back to his side after a couple of steps. “God, can’t you take half a second to admire the scenery? We’re not on a schedule.”

Jon rolls his eyes and pulls at Martin’s arm to try to make him speed up, so Martin plants his feet and stands in place, digging his heels in when Jon turns a glare onto him.

_“Martin.”_

Jon is standing an arm’s length away from him, with pursed lips and a sardonic glower, itching to keep moving but clearly reluctant to let go of his hand. Martin is powerless to stop the smile that spreads across his face, until he’s beaming wide enough to melt Jon’s stubbornness. With an exaggerated sigh, Jon comes closer, insinuating their empty hands together until they are firmly clasped, so close that he needs to tip his chin back and crane his neck to look at Martin’s face.

“Well?” Jon drawls, quietly, just for the two of them. “Was there a point to your obstinacy?”

His eyes are warm and dark, gilded though they may be, and Martin would happily lose himself in them without a second thought. He remembers his earlier impulse and gives in this time, leaning down and aside to press his mouth to Jon’s cheek high up near his temple — the one not bleached by Forsaken — nose pushing at the edge of his hat. He breathes deep while he’s there, of the bland smell of Jon’s two-in-one shampoo, and the hint of sour salt from under his collar. Jon gasps in a breath through his nose as his hands squeeze hard, disallowing any retreat.

“This all right?” Martin whispers by his ear just in case Jon’s tightening grip isn’t indication enough, eager to start his new map of Jon’s limits.

Jon doesn’t answer except to tip his head to the side, angling that temple up towards Martin, and release a long, low hum, deep enough for Martin to be able to feel the vibration against his chest like the rumble of a cat’s purr. Martin kisses him in his shorn hair again, closing his eyes and smiling against him, and when he turns his head to rest his cheek against the same spot, grinning out at the cottage and the flat, grey sky, Jon props his chin against Martin’s shoulder, tilting forward to drape himself against the curve of his belly. Both hands are still linked at their sides.

“Can we, um,” Jon murmurs by his jaw — “I’m not really — I-I mean, I don’t really know where I’m —”

“Use your words, Jon.”

He takes a short, steady breath.

“It’s been a long time? For me,” Jon says. His body is tensing against Martin’s as his voice stutters over more disjointed syllables, so Martin kisses his temple again, slow and deliberate, until he relaxes.

Jon twists his wrists, twining Martin’s hands closer.

“It’s been a while since my last relationship,” he says carefully. “I’m not sure — I can’t say, exactly, where my… what I’ll be comfortable with.”

Martin thinks about tumbling hastily into bed, or shagging on the kitchen counter the second they get home, and sighs, recognising the silliness of a fantasy that only really arose at the knowledge that it wasn’t possible. He kisses Jon’s head again, trying to memorise what his terrible shampoo smells like from this close, mingled with the scent of a living, eating, sweating human.

“We can go slowly,” he whispers. “There’s no rush.”

“I just — y-you’ve waited for a long time, we both have,” Jon babbles, nearly lost into the wind but for their proximity. “I wouldn’t want you to —”

“I’ve got lots of practice being patient.” The words seem to soothe, and silence Jon’s hesitation. Martin longs to wrap his arms around Jon’s back but is loath to release his hands, so he compromises by bending down to curl his upper body over Jon’s shoulder, a clear but unusual embrace. “There’s no pressure. I promise.”

“Okay,” Jon sighs; and then, more firmly: “Okay. Thank you, Martin.”

 _Anything for you,_ Martin almost says, then realises how desperate it would sound. He retreats just enough to kiss Jon’s temple again, an addiction he could gladly indulge for the rest of his life, especially when it elicits such languid enjoyment from Jon, who flexes his fingers in Martin’s and rubs his brow against the front of his coat with another hum.

The wind picks up a moment later, buffeting around their tiny fortress at the top of the hill and making Jon shiver and tuck their clasped hands up in between their chests.

“Good lord, it’s freezing out here,” he complains, disproportionately solemn. Martin giggles at him and kisses him on the forehead, but he's not wrong: the skin there is cool to Martin’s touch.

“Nearly home,” Martin mumbles, contemplating the little cottage in the valley over the top of Jon’s head, past the pink, woollen bobble. And maybe he’s pinning too much on this potential kill room, but if he is, Jon doesn’t comment on it. He just reluctantly lets go of Martin’s right hand and urges him to follow down the hill.

“Come on,” Jon mutters, tugging the hat into a more secure position with his free hand. “I’m dying to get a fire started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They did it... they finally communicated successfully.....
> 
> Come talk to me on Tumblr at [@cuddlytogas](https://cuddlytogas.tumblr.com)!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, histories are related, and boundaries navigated.

Once they are home and warm again, Martin insists that he is capable of making a salad even if Jon needs to make the dressing, and they lunch on a rich shakshuka with piles of greens on the side. While they cook, they play a kind of unspoken game of contact and distance, discovering the rules as they go. Martin will touch Jon’s shoulder to let him know he’s passing behind him, and Jon will flinch, then a moment later march over to touch Martin in the same place, muttering “You surprised me, that’s all.” Jon will take three full minutes to inch closer to where Martin is rinsing and shredding lettuce leaves and gradually insert himself under his arm to wind one hand around the small of his back and steal cherry tomatoes with the other; then suddenly go still, chewing his lip and averting his gaze, until Martin kisses the side of his head in reassurance, and takes back the tomatoes before he can finish the punnet by himself.

The filched snacks seem to fill Jon up, however. He takes only small portions of food, and doesn’t quite manage to finish his plate.

Martin’s afternoon plans had consisted of a hair day, but instead of announcing this on his way to lock himself in the bathroom, he stands back from the washing up and steels himself to ask: “D’you um — I was going to — if you like, y-you can join me, if — while I — I was going to do my hair today. And you can — y-you can join me if you want?”

Jon stares, then narrows his eyes.

“You’re… _not_ asking me to have a bath with you.”

Martin baulks.

“Wh— _no,_ of course not!” he squeaks out. “I just — you seemed interested last week, I just thought you might — and I’d —” _Honesty, honesty, Martin, you’re allowed to be honest now._ “Frankly, I’d just like to keep spending time with you.”

Jon melts, practically throws away his empty mug of tea, and agrees. He hovers near the toilet while Martin washes his hair in the bathroom sink, and retaliates when Martin flicks water at him by pinching his sides. There is a bittersweetness to revealing that he’s ticklish: Jon doesn’t take advantage of the fact in the moment, but Martin has the terrible, thrilling feeling of having exposed a trivial weakness. Jon drags a chair into the room in capitulation to Martin’s aching feet, and Martin separates his hair out into sections and twists them up out of the way while they’re still damp. Each knot is taken down in turn to methodically comb and condition, and Jon — eager to help, but lacking in tools — finger combs the next section as Martin natters idly on about how he swears he’s going to buy more, proper hair care products one of these days. Jon’s hands are careful, and he’s quick to learn, and Martin feels that he could sit in such bliss until the end of his days, having his hair played with by the man he loves who touches him with such tenderness as if marvelling at the opportunity.

“So,” Martin starts in a lull in the conversation, as he rubs conditioner into his hair and Jon combs a new section with a truly comical expression of concentration. Nerves prickle and flutter in Martin’s chest, but he powers through them. “Want to tell me about this — long time? Since your last, um…”

Jon’s hands slow to a halt, and it takes a few tries before he glances up enough to catch Martin’s eye in the mirror, staring like a deer caught in the headlights, if that deer was half-possessed by the Ceaseless Watcher.

“I can go first,” Martin offers. “If that’d help?”

Jon squeezes his eyes shut.

“Quick,” he mutters, “before I find out anything more without you telling me.”

Martin feels his jaw drop in time with his stomach.

“What?”

“It wasn’t on purpose!” Jon rushes out. “Uh — Isaac Okri?”

If Martin’s stomach was previously hanging around his hips, now it plummets down to his knees. He throws his hands in the air.

“Aw, _Jon!”_

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking or anything!” he protests. “I just — knew!”

“Fucking Eye,” Martin grumbles, going back to his hair, and sighs. “How much do you know?”

“Just — just the outlines,” Jon admits, no longer really combing Martin’s hair so much as stroking it, as if trying to make up for the intrusion. “Friend of a co-worker at Tesco, you met at a concert, he was one of your longest relationships at two years, eight months…”

Martin purses his mouth as Jon trails off, clearly in possession of the full duration, likely down to the minute.

“D’you know he was one of the first people I came out to as trans?” Martin asks, unable to hold back the slightly mean tone in his voice. Jon blinks three times in quick succession.

“No.”

That mollifies him a bit; he catches Jon’s eye in the mirror again, and smiles with one side of his mouth.

“I mean, it’s not _the_ reason we broke up,” he explains, “but I don’t think it helped. We were drifting anyway, and sure, he wasn’t so straight he was uncomfortable dating a butch woman, but when I told him I was pretty sure I was a bloke… well. We only lasted a few months, after that.”

“This was in 2008,” says Jon.

“Yeah,” Martin sighs. “My first long-term. If you can call it that.”

“By my standards? Absolutely.”

Jon’s voice is dry and cynical, and it takes a great effort for Martin to resist pressing the matter. That will come when Jon’s ready.

“Anyway, did you know I dated a girl once when I was sixteen?” Martin says instead, and Jon frowns.

“I thought you were gay.”

Martin laughs. “Yeah, so did I.”

Jon’s hands still on Martin’s hair, and Martin watches him in the mirror with a secret kind of glee, waiting for him to tilt his head and piece it together. Jon frowns; then his eyebrows go up; then he opens his mouth, silent for a moment.

“You thought you were a _lesbian,”_ he clarifies. Martin laughs, delighted.

“Yep,” he says. “Teenagerhood was a weird time.”

“Isn’t it always?” Jon mutters, and there is _definitely_ a story there, but Martin will _not_ press it.

“Well,” he goes on, “it was a bit harder after Isaac, being obviously trans and all. And I’ve never — I mean, I’m not exactly the type to attract a lot of attention in bars, you know? Not — _conventional.”_ Jon doesn’t interrupt, but one of his hands leaves Martin’s hair long enough to stroke a line from the nape of his neck to the crest of his shoulder, a gesture of sympathy and support.

“I went on some dates after I started T,” Martin keeps saying, “but it turns out the camera’s more flattering than café lighting, and men on Grindr are, well, shit, as a rule. My last _real_ relationship was just before the Archives. Hwan Jeong. How did we meet…”

He thinks back for a moment, trying to push through the haze of fond memories. Hwan was nice. He was just… _nice._

“Pub,” Jon answers for him, sounding strained. “You met at the pub down from the Institute, near Old Church Street. Not the place —”

His voice gives out at that. Martin knows how he was going to end the sentence: _Not the place that Tim used to take us._ He reaches up, holding out his arm, and Jon — thank God — takes the hint, and squeezes his wrist in solidarity, before going back to Martin’s hair.

“That’s right,” Martin continues through the shallow wave of grief that rolls over them both. “He was in marketing back then. He came to library drinks because all his mates had fucked off with their partners that Friday. He bought me a drink because he could tell I couldn’t afford one, but he didn’t say anything about it, not even when I thought he was flirting with me. Then he _did_ start flirting with me.”

Martin finishes with a section of hair, and his fingers brush Jon’s as he hands over the next tuft, sending a prickle of warm electricity down his arm.

“How did it end?” Jon asks, stepping around to Martin’s other side and carefully untwisting the next knot.

“You don’t already know?”

“I’d rather you told me.”

Jon’s voice has done that low, gentle thing again, softening immeasurably, and Martin feels himself tripping into love with him all over again; with this man who can know his secrets — who already _does_ know his secrets — but wants to hear them from his mouth all the same.

In that moment, Martin wants to kiss him more than anything else in the world. He pauses, to let the feeling pass: it dims a little, but refuses to fade entirely.

Martin shrugs, and dips his finger in the pot for more conditioner.

“He cheated on me.”

Jon’s palm flattens against his scalp. “I’m so sorry.”

Already tilting his head to reach the back of his hair, Martin cranes his neck a little more to look at Jon directly. His face is solemn and tragic, and honestly, it was years ago — he needn’t look so upset.

“I mean, it wasn’t… all that unexpected?” he says. “Not that I saw it coming or anything, obviously I was devastated at the time, but I wasn’t… _surprised,_ not really. He was lovely, but, I don’t know — I think he was also kind of… complacent? He was shocked when I found out. Racquel mentioned him going on a date, only it wasn’t with me, obviously — but she had no idea he was two-timing.”

“Racquel?”

Even though he was expecting it, Martin still laughs at Jon’s nonplussed question.

“From payroll!” he cries. “Honestly, Jon, it’s like you don’t even know we work for a whole _company —”_

“A whole company that doesn’t know it’s in service of a malicious entity that feeds on causing and consuming the fears of others —”

“Just because they don’t know what’s going on, doesn’t mean they don’t exist!” Martin giggles, exasperated and delighted all at once. “As far as you’re concerned, the Institute’s just Research, Archives, and Artefact Storage, and maybe Elias’s office, if you’re unlucky. You probably think our pay shows up and our tax is deducted by magic.”

Jon’s hands don’t stop combing, and his tone doesn’t budge, when he says, “Isn’t it?” It takes a full six seconds for Martin to decide that he’s joking.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said, but his face goes hot as he says it, full to the brim with affection. Jon smiles to himself, small and private, and Martin catches it in the mirror and feels blessed by the sight. He refocuses on his hair, trying to pull himself together.

“Anyway, yeah, then I had a brief crush on Tim, because everyone who meets him _has_ to have a crush on him for at least a week —”

 _“I_ never had a crush on Tim,” Jon protests, mildly outraged. Martin snorts.

“I bet you did, though,” he says. “Either that, or you’re magic. No one can resist his —”

He feels it like a punch to the chest, the pang of realisation, the second wave of that shallow but recursive grief. It’s been over a year, but of course it’s still easy to slip, especially when talking to the only other person who knew him before everything went wrong; who knew the Tim that everyone fell in love with for at least a week.

 _“Could,”_ he corrects himself, sinking. “No one _could_ resist his charms, not even you.”

Jon’s palms flatten against his head again, encircling the curve at the back of his skull, and after a moment’s hesitation, he bends down to drop a kiss between the remaining knots of untreated hair.

“Anyway,” Martin sighs, “it was just you, then, right after that.”

Jon startles, whipping up to try and catch Martin’s eye in the mirror, then twisting around to look down at him properly.

“You’re joking,” he says, and Martin huffs a laugh.

“I wish.”

“I was _horrible_ to you!”

“I never said it was _healthy,”_ Martin laughs, glancing up at him askance, “but you did have the whole ‘mean professor’ thing going on. It was attractive!”

 _“How_ is that attractive?” Jon groans. “I treated you like dirt, Martin — which, by the way, you did _not_ deserve, and I don’t think I’ve ever actually apologised for it, and honestly, your work might have been a little unfocused, but —”

“Apology accepted,” Martin smiles, stopping Jon in his tracks. The man stares at him, wide-eyed and still, before physically shaking himself out of whatever stupor Martin’s words sent him into and picking up the wide-toothed comb.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath.

“Look, you were _cute,_ okay?” Martin continues, delighted at the way Jon bites his lips and avoids his eye. “And you obviously needed looking after, and God knows I like a challenge, hey?”

That makes Jon laugh, rueful and reluctant, until he ducks down and leans his brow against the top of Martin’s head where his hair is still tied up, hiding his face. Martin giggles again, overcome by delight at reducing this most sombre man to embarrassment at being shown basic care and affection. _One day,_ he thinks to himself — _one day, however long it takes, I’ll make sure he all but takes it for granted._

It strikes him that he is thinking of the future — of a future _with Jon_ — and if his hands weren’t covered in conditioner, he would absolutely be reaching up for Jon’s. Again, desire surges in him, and he wants to turn and kiss Jon, to taste his laughter.

“Anyway, I promise it’s more than that, now,” he says, swallowing that longing urge. “I think —” He laughs a bit more, distracting himself with his work while Jon straightens and returns to his own task. “Maybe it goes right back to Prentiss, I don’t know,” he continues. “I thought you wouldn’t even believe me, but you took it so seriously. You offered me somewhere to stay. And after that, you just got more and more — I don’t know — _human._ God, you cared so much — you _do_ care, so much —” He flushes, and his voice drops to a mumble as he finishes: “Of course I fell in love with you. Don’t think I’ve felt like that since Isaac.”

Martin falls silent, then, sinking into the natural lull in conversation as Jon recovers from his flattery. He finishes another section of hair, and takes up the smaller comb as Jon hands over the next tuft, waiting.

Jon untwists the next coil of hair and starts to card his fingers through the scattered tangles, but soon stops. His hands drift down to Martin’s shoulders, where they settle, warm and unsteady.

“One,” he says quietly. “I’ve been in one romantic relationship.”

His tone is very careful, and his voice low and private. Martin swallows his surprise, wary of breaking a peace that seems suddenly fragile.

“Georgie?” he says. Jon nods his confirmation.

“About, um… We lasted sixteen months,” he says. “It was good, and… then it wasn’t. But we were close, and — she was a good friend. I regret not doing more to keep her around. Not — handling things better. But that’s… basically it.”

“‘Basically’?” Martin repeats, sensing hesitation. He’s proved right when Jon sighs, rather explosively.

“Let me ask you this,” he says, a little snapped and peremptory: “between Isaac and Hwan, how many people would you say you dated?”

“Oh, um —” Martin shrugs, trying to remember that far back. He only really has impressions: a handful of faces and names, not always matching. “Maybe — it was, like, five years, so I guess I went on maybe ten dates? And half or so of them had a second date, and I’d say half again kept going to some extent or another, but I don’t think any of them lasted more than two or three months, at the most.”

“And you didn’t mention _them_ in your count,” Jon points out.

“Well, no,” Martin admits, “but that’s not just because they were short. They just weren’t very important to me. That doesn’t mean you can’t have had someone you only saw twice but who was important to _you.”_

Jon’s hands shift on Martin’s shoulders, squeezing and releasing, adjusting their angle. He is avoiding Martin’s eye, both directly and via their reflections.

“There was someone just before I went to Oxford,” he says, flat and to the point. “They were… important. But it only lasted a few months.”

Martin waits in case there is more, but Jon lapses into silence, hardly moving.

“If they were important to you,” Martin says slowly, “then it’s worth mentioning.”

“They just —” Jon stops himself abruptly, squeezes Martin’s shoulders again, and goes on at a more measured pace. “I’ve always considered myself… _above_ these sorts of things. Call it intellectual arrogance, I don’t know. If I’d known the word ‘sapiosexual’ at seventeen, I probably would have adopted it. But that relationship… helped me realise what I want. And what I don’t want. Not always directly, it took a lot of soul searching and other such nonsense —”

“That’s not nonsense,” Martin insists gently, and Jon’s hands tighten on him again in gratitude.

“Well — yes,” he concedes. “It helped, is all. And — and Georgie helped. But things with her ended so badly, that I thought — well, I think I regressed, somewhat. Started thinking that — romance, _relationships,_ all of that — that I didn’t need it. That I didn’t _want_ it. That I preferred to be alone, that I preferred friendships, and I was _too busy,_ and it was easier that way. But it wasn’t easier, and I wasn’t happier, and I wasn’t safer, and all that’s happened now is that I’m woefully inexperienced and I feel — well — out of my depth.”

Martin’s heart goes soft and a bit weepy, and he hopes it isn’t showing too much on his face. He feels the overwhelming need to be steady for Jon in this moment.

“That’s okay,” he says quietly. “I’m not expecting anything from you, I don’t need you to be — s-some sort of expert. God knows, I’m not exactly Casanova. We can go at whatever pace you like, you can ask any questions you have, and — and if I overstep, you just say so. All right?”

Jon nods, breathing deeply.

“I’ve just —” he tries to say, then stops abruptly, course-correcting. “I’ve been in denial for so long, and now I hardly remember what it’s like to just — to focus on _people._ First I told myself I was prioritising my studies, or my research for the Institute, and then of course I was promoted and I — I had to prove that I was worth it, that I knew what I was doing when I obviously didn’t — and then — well, l-like you said a few days ago. It’s hard to get close to people when you’re — staving off worms, and finding secret tunnels, and b-being framed for murder, and chasing Elias’s leads. Except… then…”

Jon huffs a tiny laugh, rueful, surprised, and blissfully sentimental all at once. A smile plucks at the corners of his mouth, enough to fractionally lighten his expression, and he at last looks up to catch Martin’s eye again in the mirror.

“Then there was you.” Jon’s hands tighten again, and then smooth downwards as he bends to embrace Martin from behind, pressing another kiss to the edge of his loose hair. Martin quickly wipes his hands on his hair and — conditioner be damned — hooks his oily fingers on Jon’s wrists, crossed over his chest, and waits. He is sure that Jon’s not finished yet, and loath to interrupt his flow.

“I don’t know what it was, or when it was,” Jon murmurs, closing his eyes and resting his cheek on top of Martin’s head. “I just know that I stopped wanting to be alone. Or, rather: I stopped _lying_ to myself about wanting to be alone. But — Sasha was dead, and Tim was losing it, and Basira and Melanie got trapped with us, and everyone was trying to kill me, and the Unknowing…” His voice gives out for a second, and Martin grips his hands tighter. “I didn’t really have time to think about what I was feeling,” Jon finishes. “And then…”

Martin swallows.

“Then you died,” he finishes for Jon. He feels him nod against his life-leeched hair.

“And you were gone,” Jon adds, with an air of finality. “Just in time for me to realise —”

Martin breathes; but it seems like Jon is done. He hides his face against the back of Martin’s head, and doesn’t elaborate.

“I’m sorry,” Martin whispers, rubbing his thumbs over the knobs of Jon’s wrists and pushing down the tightness in his throat.

“You were doing what you had to,” Jon sighs, “I understand that. We were all just doing our best in an impossible situation.”

Martin hums his agreement, and they linger there for a long minute, with Jon curled over Martin’s back and latched around his collar, warm and present. There is the faint itch of incomplete knowledge at the back of Martin’s mind, and he knows that Jon hasn’t said everything; but that’s okay. They’ll have time for that, whenever Jon wants to say more.

Eventually, Martin licks his lips and says, “Um, Jon? My hair’s not actually finished yet.”

Jon jumps back from him, stammering his apologies, but Martin just giggles, and that seems to reassure him. They finish combing and conditioning while Martin tells a few stories of terrible dates for Jon to laugh at in that rich, beautiful voice of his, and Martin finishes off by once more mourning the lack of his afro pick as he uses his fingers and the ends of his combs to fluff and shape his hair until he’s satisfied.

Immediately, Jon spoils all his work by wrapping his arms back around Martin’s shoulders from behind and pressing his nose to Martin’s head with a satisfied hum, his hair just long enough to bury Jon’s face.

“Well, now you’ve ruined it,” Martin deadpans, and Jon doesn’t even move, just lets his puff of laughter mess up more of their hard work.

Martin thinks he understands, though. When he gathers Jon’s hands up in his own and ducks his head, he finds himself kissing the worm scar on his left wrist, brushing against the very evidence of how close they have so often come to never having this: to facing death or damnation rather than this miracle of a retreat. It only takes an extra minute to fix his hair, and if Jon takes the same comfort in nuzzling Martin’s white hair as Martin does in caressing his scars, then who is he to deny him?

Martins chops some more wood while the sun is up, then lies down on the sofa with his socked feet propped on the arm, swollen, blistered, and unused to two-hour-long walks twice in a week. Jon spends the same time making dough in the kitchen, and they chat idly while he waits for it to rise, about shoe brands, and Tudor fashion, and months-old news about US politics. They argue about the best kind of cider, and Jon endures Martin waxing lyrical about French bulldogs. When Jon goes to knead the dough, Martin skims through Sappho again, and feels like his heart is being pulled out of his chest as he dwells on memories of the black-brown and iridescent green of Jon’s eyes, and reads _‘Stand and face me, dear; release / That fineness in your irises’._

Then he remembers that they’re “a thing” now, and he doesn’t need to be guarded about his romantic impulses. He heaves himself to his feet and gingerly crosses to the kitchen while Jon covers the dough and sets it aside, catching him by surprise when he turns.

“Ah, Martin,” Jon says, absurdly businesslike even as he lets Martin scoop up his hands, and leans into the embrace. “Something you needed?”

“No,” Martin grins, bringing one set of their joined hands up to touch under Jon’s chin, urging him to look up at him. “Was just thinking about you.”

Jon rolls his lovely eyes, with little more than the slimmest halo of green at the edges of his irises behind his glasses, only perceptible because Martin expects to see it; but he doesn’t look away for long. Martin bites his lip, thinks of _fineness_ , and wants nothing more than to sink into Jon’s gaze.

“Stand and face me,” he whispers. “It’s —”

“Sappho again,” Jon finishes for him, low and cynical without any loss of affection. “I think she might be a corrupting influence on your sentimentalism.”

“Shut up,” Martin mumbles, “you love it.”

“God help me, but I think I actually might,” Jon sighs with a tilt of his head to one side, and Martin cannot possibly be blamed for being distracted by the subtle curve of his mouth, not quite hidden by his growing moustache and beard. He should trim that soon, Martin thinks, and not just because it would get in the way when — _if_ — he gets to kiss him.

He watches as Jon’s tongue peeks out just enough to wet the seam of his lips, pink and wet and tantalising. It’s possible Martin dies on the spot.

“Not that we’re in any position to test it,” Jon breathes, “but I tend towards the monogamous.”

 _That_ makes Martin glance up, at the stubborn set of Jon’s brow and the worry at its edges.

“Okay,” he replies, matching Jon’s volume. “That suits me fine.”

“And I — _we —”_ Jon swallows, audible in the closeness and the quiet. “I’d like for us to be — I suppose — p- _partnered,_ I guess. To consider us — you know. _Dating,_ inasmuch as we’re together, but not necessarily going on dates, per se, what with our — our — situation. I-I-I know it’s probably a little early to be discussing it, but —”

“Yeah, you really are barrelling right through all the big conversations, aren’t you?” Martin chuckles. Jon squeezes his hands.

“I’d just dwell on them otherwise,” he mutters, eyes darting awkwardly. “And I want to know we’re on the same page. It feels important, but I’ve d— _we’ve_ done more than enough waiting. I don’t think there’s any question of whether or not this is going to stick long enough to require a definition of terms.”

Martin snorts, ducking his head and noting the blooming smile on Jon’s face at his delight, rather than consternation, at Jon’s idiosyncrasies.

“I’m going to aggressively call you my boyfriend in front of Basira when this all dies down,” Martin quips. “Five quid says she calls us childish.”

“Personally, I’m hoping for ‘gross’, but I’ll take what we can get.”

It makes Martin laugh again, in that silly, hissing way he does at the back of his mouth, but to judge by Jon’s pleased and satisfied expression, he doesn’t mind. Martin darts in to kiss his bleached temple, before stepping back to nearly an arm’s length.

“Boyfriends it is then,” he declares, as unable to keep the smug grin from his face as much as Jon seems unable to stop himself from rolling his eyes with an air of patient fondness. “Can I help with dinner at all?”

It’s a momentous day, overall. By Martin’s count, there were multiple declarations of love, two and a half difficult conversations, a very mature agreement, and he finally — at the ripe old age of thirty-one — learnt how to properly dice an onion.

In bed that night, Jon grumpily pulls Martin around in the dark until he is spooned up against his back with his arm draped over his waist, and Martin’s breath goes thin with how much love he feels in that moment. His legs are so cluttered up with Jon’s that he fears the hot water bottle will make him overheat, and Jon’s hair is dangerously close to his mouth. He falls asleep to the feeling of Jon sleepily fiddling with his hand, and wakes on his back, angled in towards the dip in the mattress where Jon’s spine makes a long line of warmth and flannel against his body from shoulder to knee.

Martin can’t stop the quiet grunts of early morning from escaping as he wriggles onto his side, dropping the covers off his shoulder and indulging the urge to wrap his arm around Jon’s side and mumble, “You awake?”

Jon groans something that might as well be an affirmative, and Martin chuckles sleepily, closing his eyes again and ducking his head to press his brow to the patch of exposed skin between Jon’s soft collar and his hairline. It only takes the slightest suggestion in his grip to get Jon to shift in place, leaning back into Martin’s chest with a sigh and tucking both hands around his arm. Martin opens his eyes very briefly to orient himself, catching a glimpse of closed eyelids without a nightmare glow, and a clothed shoulder in perfect kissing range.

He shuts his eyes again as he raises his head and gives in to the impulse, tasting lint and body heat. Jon hums something incomprehensible, and adjusts his hips until his bent knees are leaning against Martin’s legs, rolling closer.

“God, I’ve wanted this for ages,” Jon mumbles, made honest by the haze of an early morning. “I can’t believe you thought I pulled you out of the fog by being _such a good friend.”_

Martin snorts at him, brushing his hand down to the hem of Jon’s shirts. He is stopped by a belated conscience at the first touch of Jon’s warm, smooth skin over the crest of his hip, and cracks open one eye just enough to try and see Jon’s expression. It’s mostly hidden from him by the angle and proximity, his vision just a blur of pillows, greying hair, and patches of brown, pockmarked skin.

“This all right?” he asks quietly — and a little awkwardly, with his cheek squashed up by the pillow — tapping one finger against the crumpled folds of Jon’s shirts.

Jon’s response, a little slurred though it might be, sounds remarkably arch. “Are you heading up or down from there?”

Martin laughs at his tone, and squeezes his hip in reassurance. “Up,” he answers. “Just to where I was before.”

Jon sighs, as if making an almighty concession, but he also turns further in towards Martin, and his fingers grasp at Martin’s arm.

“Oh, go on, then.”

Martin grins sleepily into the pillow and tucks his fingers in under Jon’s shirt to swipe up over his (far too skinny) belly. The fabric pushes up until it catches, trapped under Jon’s back, no doubt leaving a long triangle of exposed hip and stomach under the covers. They are skin to skin here, Martin’s hand and wrist against the side of Jon’s abdomen without any worm scars, and Jon hums and shivers slightly as Martin smooths to a rest with his fingers over the unnatural dip where his floating ribs should be. Just thinking about them makes Martin’s heart ache, and he can’t help but stroke his thumb back and forth over the hollow, trying to soothe a long-distant agony.

He goes back to the conversation, trying to distract them both from needlessly thinking about pain even as his hand stays where it is, cupped defensively around Jon’s wounds.

“I can’t believe _you_ were surprised that I thought non-romantic love could get someone out of the Lonely,” he belatedly retorts. “What about that woman in Italy? Who used her mum as an anchor?”

“That was different,” Jon mutters stubbornly.

“And explain to me again how you thought you could’ve gotten me out through the power of unrequited love?” Martin teases. The longer they talk, the more he wakes up, and the easier it is to keep his eyes open and admire the glimpses he has of Jon’s face — the sharp end of his nose, a silver hair in his eyebrow — and the view down the slope of his neck, past the patch of scar tissue over his Adam’s apple and under his shirt to the dip and knot of his collarbone. He flexes the hand folded back under his head, instinctively flattening his other palm over Jon’s ribs, pulling him in a little closer. Jon follows his implication without resistance, hugging Martin’s elbow.

“You didn’t read Herman Gorgoli’s statement,” he replies, lower than before, with a crease forming between his eyebrows. It doesn’t look like the early hour is the only reason he’s keeping his eyes closed anymore. “About a pocket dimension of Forsaken, in the suburbs. He and his partner… ‘Rough patch’ would be an understatement. Hard to say if they’d both _entirely_ fallen out of love with each other, but the relationship was certainly festering. Herman cheated, Alberto kicked him out… but he still pulled him from the Lonely. I don’t know. I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch to think that past or unrequited feelings would be enough, in the right circumstances.”

Martin doesn’t know what to say to that. What started as teasing has become all too serious, and it’s too early to consider all the many, horrible ways that people have suffered in this world. All the ways _they_ have suffered.

“Jon…”

He’s saved from having to find a proper response when Jon blinks open his eyes and looks at him at last. His irises are half-overcome by green, but it doesn’t matter: it’s still Jon who angles his face towards him, and disentangles one arm to reach up and brush his fingers over the swell of Martin’s cheek, taking his breath away. He cups his hand there, the edge of his palm resting against the corner of Martin’s mouth, and relaxes into a little smile as his thumb taps back and forth over the crest of his cheek, mapping out, Martin suspects, the larger of his freckles.

Then Jon frowns again, and he purses his lips in annoyance.

“I need a wee,” he grumbles, sounding immensely disappointed by the fact. Martin snorts quietly at him through the half-layer of sleep.

“You really ought to just go before bed,” he says.

Jon screws up his nose. “I don’t _need_ to go before bed.”

“Neither do I,” Martin shrugs against the mattress, “but I _do_ go, and now I’m much better off than you are.”

“Eugh, you’re insufferable,” Jon groans. He rolls abruptly away, Martin holding up his arm to release him, but he only gets as far as pushing himself up on his hands before he turns his head to keep looking at Martin, the softness in his eyes betraying his words. Martin is able to watch as he bites his tongue, gaze darting over Martin’s face, then releases it, coming to a decision.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Jon warns, and drags himself out of the bed with remarkable swiftness, darting across the rug and cold floorboards to the bathroom. Martin grins to himself, burying it in the pillow as butterflies open their wings in his stomach and flutter up to his chest, setting his heart quivering with joy. It’s not long before Jon comes back, but it’s early enough that Martin starts to doze in the meantime, pulled out of it when the mattress jumps and sinks under Jon’s weight again. Martin opens his eyes to watch Jon settle back under the covers, wrinkling his nose.

“Did you fart in the bed while I was gone?” he says, sounding accusatory even as he shuffles in close again and rearranges Martin’s limbs so that his legs once more make a rest for Jon’s knees, and his hand is back over Jon’s ribs under his shirt.

“What, you’d rather I waited until you came back?”

Jon’s expression sours, admitting defeat.

“Good point. I guess.”

They lie like that for a long time, drifting in and out of sleep, curled up against and towards each other. Martin lazily caresses Jon’s hollowed-out ribcage, marvelling at how lucky he is to be able to touch him like this, while Jon keeps the fingers of one hand by Martin’s face, falling now upon his freckles, now on his chin, now reaching up to trace the outline of his ear or smooth back his hair. Their breaths are stale and sour with the morning, but not enough to break them apart. After the first few minutes, they both start edging closer, until eventually they are brow-to-brow, and Martin doesn’t bother focusing on Jon’s face anymore, not when they’re so close he goes cross-eyed and headachy trying to see it.

He wants to kiss him. It would be so easy to kiss him. His mouth is _right there,_ his handsome, thin-lipped mouth, with the tempting dip in his top lip and the hint of fullness underneath, a subtle, blushing colour against his skin…

Martin has yearned for that mouth for a long time, but always from afar. It’s a new experience, to be this close and unable to surrender. But he’ll get through it.

Eventually, Martin wakes enough — and the ache in his back gets strong enough — that he resigns himself to breaking the peace and leaving the bed. He tips his chin and flattens the pillow under his face so he can kiss Jon’s forehead, prompting a deep-chested sigh and the smallest of whining sounds from Jon’s throat. Still with his mouth on Jon’s skin, Martin murmurs, “Come on, time to get up,” feeling the dent of a worm scar under his lower lip. Jon’s hands tightens for a moment on his arm and the back of his neck, and then release.

“Would you make tea?” he mumbles, as he gently begins to extricate his limbs.

“Of course,” Martin answers, interrupting himself to groan as he rolls over, the twinge in his back shifting. “Could you turn on the power while I brush my teeth?”

“Sure.”

They reluctantly haul themselves out of the warm covers and onto their feet. Jon takes Martin’s slippers again, and stops him at the foot of the bed to press a lazy kiss to his bicep through the sleeve of his t-shirt, hugging his arm and intertwining their fingers for just a moment as he hides the streak of Lonely white on his temple against him. Martin cups his hand around the back of Jon’s neck, and cranes around to kiss the top of his head, and then they part like this is normal; like they have both imagined it so many times that to at last indulge themselves seems more like repeating a memory than waking up as a couple for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that is indeed the entirety of the (fragment of) Sappho, Voigt 138.
> 
> Come talk to me [@cuddlytogas](http://cuddlytogas.tumblr.com) on Tumblr!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Jon and Martin deal with laundry, Mary Oliver, and kissing.

Martin spends the rest of Saturday intermittently resisting the urge to kiss Jon’s mouth. The old pull in his chest impelling him towards Jon — wanting him, needing him — has been soothed in one way by the new ability to indulge it, but it has also been strengthened in that one, specific urge: to kiss and grind and sweat, to devour and be devoured. It’s hard to tell just how much is the influence of the Lonely, but it’s been years since he did anything more than pull himself off, and even that’s been months.

(It’s easy enough to see the correlation. Trauma and death are pretty good libido inhibitors, but they weren’t a hundred percent effective. Then he started working for Peter Lukas, and soon enough he’d stopped wanking altogether. He was tired all the time, and the little bit of pleasure just never seemed worth the effort.)

But being around Jon so much — and now touching him, and holding him — is doing a number on his self-restraint, and there’s not exactly much privacy in the tiny cabin with Jon always within reach. There isn’t even a shower to give him an excuse to lock the bathroom door and cover up any noise; once more, Martin mourns not knowing how precious that hotel room in Insch was going to seem in hindsight. Still, he can’t find it in himself to mourn the level of voyeuristic intimacy that they’re reaching, not when it is such an obvious indicator of trust. They’re becoming far too familiar with each other’s bowel movements, and body odour is becoming a regular companion. Jon has seen Martin changing, helped do his hair, watched him stub his toes and burn toast and struggle his way gracelessly out of the dip in the middle of the sofa, but he shows no sign of being put off by the knowledge. He even walks in on Martin popping pimples on his inner thighs that afternoon, grimacing but still hanging around to mention that he’s about to run out of pants, and did Martin happen to buy laundry soap while he was at the shops?

Martin’s glad of the reminder. He, too, has been rationing his underwear, wary of mentioning their perilous situation lest it sound too much like getting settled in what’s meant to be a temporary space. So it is that they spend their Saturday afternoon scrounging out some laundry powder from Daisy’s cleaning supplies, and filling the deep laundry sink in the bathroom with suds and hot water. They scrub socks and t-shirts, and Jon’s plain grey Y-fronts in juxtaposition with Martin’s patterned boxer briefs, taking turns at the sink and spitting out the suds that rise into their faces. Born and raised on laundrettes, Martin is relegated to rinsing and wringing duty, clearly not up to Jon’s fastidious standards. Martin decides that this is profoundly hypocritical, considering that Jon’s been the one living in the Archives and tunnels for months — _with company_ moreover, which considering how hard Martin had it by himself, must have achieved a new low in dignity for the department — and he makes this known by pressing a cold, sudsy hand to the back of Jon’s neck, making him shriek, then retaliate.

It delays the washing, of course; but it also means that Martin gets to be chased around the little bathroom by Jon with a leaking handful of grey water, and to learn how Jon has decided to exploit his knowledge of Martin’s ticklishness. They both end up soaking wet and giggling, collapsing into each other in a tangle of arms, Jon adding to the dampness on Martin’s collar by pressing laughing kisses to his chest. Martin complains that, “I _just_ did my hair!”, and Jon responds with, _“We_ did your hair, and if I took part in fixing it, I’m owed a share in ruining it again,” which is so patently false that Martins say nothing more than, _“Pff,_ you’re so lucky I love you.”

To which Jon responds with a breathy, “I am, aren’t I?”, which breaks Martin’s heart in two only to seal it back up again. He pulls back enough to bring them properly face to face, and draws his hands up the sides of Jon’s neck, silencing his sarcasm, until he is cradling Jon’s jaw between his palms and _aching_ to kiss him.

He doesn’t; not in _that_ way, at least. Instead, Martin closes his eyes, and presses his mouth to Jon’s brow, breathing in — then out — steadying himself as their frenetic energy fades. When he rests his cheek against Jon’s hairline, Jon places his hands on Martin’s chest, gathering up the damp cotton of his shirt in two expressive fists, and patently steeling himself.

“I love you too,” he says, low and even, and though the words feel like a cliché, or an exposure, Martin recognises them for the truth that they are, and his heart seems to grow in his chest. That might explain the tightness he feels, like an expanding ball of joy. The soap suds fizzle between them, and Jon adds: “I prefer liquid soap, by the way. We must remember to buy some when we’re in the village again.”

They add the ruined shirts to the washing, and Jon must notice Martin’s glances while they change, because he says — in that soft voice he has, so full of care — “You can look, you know. I don’t mind.”

So Martin looks at last, directly and fully, observing and admiring the planes of Jon’s chest, the slight paunch of his belly, his dark nipples and fine hair, and the hollow under his ribs on the right side, the worm scars scattered up his left. The wounds from the explosion in the wax museum healed in unpredictable ways, leaving Jon’s bones intact and many of his injuries without trace, while other burns and cuts still show up as tight patches of scar tissue on his torso and arms. Jon’s skin is a more muted shade under his clothes, and like this, Martin can see the faint lines on his collar and forearms where it turns bronze after the exposure of summer. He wants to touch and taste so badly that his mouth might as well be watering.

It takes a moment, then, for him to realise that Jon is looking too, at the stretch of his belly with its faint, corrugated lines and trails of hair (still dark, thank God; he’d been a little worried that the bleaching from the Lonely wasn’t going to stop at his chin). In Martin’s opinion, he’s not much to look at: saggy man boobs under the faded scars of his old ones, flabby underarms, and curves in all the wrong places. At least his hips and bum aren’t so dysphoric since starting on T, but they’re still nothing to write home about. And yet…

Jon is looking at him like he might be a supermodel, or a god. His eyes are laser focused, darting across Martin’s chest, taking in the pale brown of his skin, the patchy hair and scattered freckles, the slope and curve of his shoulders and the rolls and swells further down. He looks like he’s trying to analyse and understand him — commit him to memory — and perhaps he is. That’s what Jon often does with things that fascinate him.

Martin reflects on the idea of being _fascinating_ to someone, and finds he rather enjoys it.

They break out of the moment eventually, with shy smiles and nervous laughter, pulling on new shirts and going back to their work. Jon finishes the washing while Martin wrings it out as best he can, and they set about figuring out how to string up some twine across the living room, tied to hooks on the windows that Jon Knows are meant for curtain rods. Their hands brush as they hang their socks and pants in lines across the room, particularly when Jon insists that the socks need to go with their pairs, snatching mismatched ones from Martin’s hand. Martin lights a fire, while Jon asks if he’d prefer fried noodles or rice with the vegetables, and offers to show Martin how to cook tofu.

He has to nap after dinner despite only eating a half portion, insisting that Martin needn’t get up from the sofa if he doesn’t mind Jon’s feet in his lap. There’s nothing Martin wants more in the moment, but it doesn’t help his situation to rest his hand on Jon’s bare ankle and watch the too-bright green flicker behind his eyelids in his restlessness, the sleeping frown back on his face. Martin wonders which way the cycle runs: being supernaturally hungry keeps Jon tired, and he clearly visits dreams when he can no longer resist nodding off, but it’s hard to tell whether that’s a happy accident for the Eye, or exactly the point of exhausting him when he can’t get… _proper food._

Either way, Martin now knows just how cold Jon’s feet get, and the shape of his ill-cared-for toenails, the long, narrow bones and flat arches. He picks up Mary Oliver for something to do and reads a paean to attention, anticipation, and work, and he thinks about the lines of Jon’s legs; about soapy water in the flop of his hair; about his fingers trembling with an awful hunger; about his angular hips and what lies in between; about the no-longer-hypothetical swathes of dark skin; about…

Martin stares at Jon’s sleeping form — at the man he loves and who loves him back — and thinks about expectation and fulfillment, and _oh all that loose, blue rink of sky, where does it go to, and why?_

Jon wants to wait, and so Martin will wait. It’s not so hard to find pleasure in that.

A few hours later, Jon drapes himself over Martin’s chest in bed, and Martin would also be happy living exactly so for the rest of his days.

Then he dreams of cold and fog, and he wakes barely remembering that he was looking for happiness at all.

“Jon.”

The man is curled over Martin’s right shoulder, his hands clenched into fists in Martin’s shirt. He is shivering slightly with whatever horror he is watching, just perceptible in the first rays of dawn. Beyond him, Martin can see a layer of mist hovering above the floorboards; he finds his numb left hand and flicks it free of the blankets to shake Jon by the shoulder.

_“Jon.”_

He startles awake with an ungainly gasp, ripped from his sustenance, eyes wide and head darting up from where it was lying on Martin’s chest. Martin watches as the green film over his eyes retreats to his irises like dirty water draining from a sink, or a spill being soaked into a sponge.

Jon blinks a few times, and exhaustion returns to him. He sinks back down until his brow is pressed to Martin’s sternum, his hands flattening and relaxing against him.

“Mm?”

Martin swallows, loath to disturb the languid comfort of pre-dawn now that Jon isn’t playing the unwilling voyeur to a stranger’s terrors. Everything about the situation feels somehow distant, like it is happening to someone else, and perhaps that’s why Martin is able to remain so calm even as he feels a hollow opening up under his ribs, threatening to swallow him whole and leave only a shell for Jon to rest upon.

“Can you see that fog on the ground?”

 _That_ wakes Jon up. He freezes for a second, then raises his eyes with great reluctance, looking across Martin to the edge of the bed. For a moment, he doesn’t speak, just awkwardly gets his hand underneath him to push himself further up, twisting around and checking the rest of the room. Martin doesn’t want to know how bad the layer of mist is, but he would wager that it stretches from wall to wall, a solid blanket perhaps now turning translucent with his regained consciousness.

 _“Martin,”_ Jon breathes, whipping back to face him. His eyes are so green that it almost hurts to look at them; Martin can only return his gaze because of how numb he already feels.

Jon shifts himself up Martin’s body, leaning against him chest to chest and raising his burned hand to Martin’s cheek, directing his face. He inspects him for a moment, and Martin endures the scrutiny with the ease of practice and apathy. Whatever Jon sees, it makes the edges of his brows turn down as he presses his lips together, tight and thin. Martin sighs.

“Grey eyes again?”

Jon nods, and forces a smile.

“It’s fine,” he says, voice catching for a moment in his throat, his hand pawing at Martin’s cheek. “They’ll go back to normal.”

Martin can’t help the cynical laugh that huffs out of him at that, as he looks up at Jon’s eerie, glowing gaze.

“What, the same way yours will?” he says, then immediately reconsiders the words. “Sorry,” he adds, breathier now; and is that regret piercing red-hot between his ribs? “Sorry, that was —”

“No,” says Jon, kind but unsmiling. “No, you’re quite right.” He doesn’t draw back, however, just leans forward to press a kiss to the middle of Martin’s cheek, opposite his own hand. “What happened?”

Martin shrugs against the weight of Jon lying against him.

“Nothing,” he says. His next intake of breath quivers, and either his lungs are turning into molten iron, or he’s feeling something like horror and shame. “Noth— nothing. I didn’t do _anything,_ nothing set it off, if anything I was feeling _happy._ Why —”

Jon shushes him, closing his eyes against that uncanny glow as he leans in again to press more kisses to Martin’s face: up and down his cheek, over his jaw, on his chin, across his nose.

“Well — it can’t have that — can it?” he asks between kisses, small and quiet against Martin’s skin. “Forsaken wants you — tired and — lonely — and sad — so it can pretend to be — the better option.”

Martin’s hands flex, and his arms draw in around Jon’s waist, palms pressing against his back and pulling him closer. Martin doesn’t remember thinking about doing that, and he wonders distantly whether it is reflex, or a conscious need for comfort as the weight of the situation tries to crush him against the mattress. All the while, Jon keeps kissing his face, murmuring words of comfort as he drifts up to drag his lips over Martin’s temple, hairline, and bleached eyebrow; the flat bridge of his nose; the fragile skin of his eyelid; the crest of his cheek.

“But it’s not better,” Jon whispers as he goes. “And it’s not — your fault — that it came for you — when you didn’t even tempt it.”

“Malevolent forces,” Martin mutters, remembering Jon’s words from that night by the fire, with his pyjamas wet with dew, and fear and shame coursing through him.

“Exactly,” Jon sighs against his face, and tucks his nose into the fold of Martin’s neck and chin. “And I’m — I’m sorry I didn’t—”

“Don’t apologise,” Martin warns, feeling his voice strengthen.

“Yes, but,” Jon tries again — “I’m sorry that I’m not — that I might never be —”

“I don’t care what Elias did to you,” Martin snaps, tightening his arms around Jon’s back as a surge of protective anger rushes through him, waking him, firing his brain, making his heart thrum in his chest. “You’re still Jon. You’re still you. And I —”

The words stick in his throat at that, like a too-large piece of ice in a bitter drink. He swallows, but although he can imagine the words he is trying to say, can feel the emotion welling up in him and spilling over, something stops it in his throat, and all he can do is croak out a few broken sounds.

Jon raises his head again and meets Martin’s eye, blazing with knowledge. Martin can barely make out his pupils amidst the pinioning glow that is just strong enough to reach through the fog and peel Martin open, pull him out again. His thumb strokes across Martin’s face, stretching the skin under his eye with the fervour of the gesture.

Then the light in his eye seems to shutter, and Jon’s arm holding him up trembles, and he sighs like he is suddenly exhausted again, ravenous and weak. His gaze doesn’t shift from Martin’s, though, barely holding steady through the wave.

“I love you too,” Jon breathes, and Martin figures that Seeing his affection probably doesn’t feed the Eye the same way it would if he were existentially terrified.

 _Oh well,_ Martin thinks. _It’s our bed, and the Eye can get fucked if it doesn’t like it._

He smiles when Jon does, as his hips and arms start to feel warm again, and cranes his neck to reach up and kiss Jon under the chin.

“Yeah,” he sighs as he drops back down to the pillow. “That.”

The sun rises slowly outside as they lay curled around each other, and Martin regains the feeling in his hands and feet and remembers what it is to be loose-limbed and pressed up against the man he loves. Jon dozes for an hour, eyes flickering green, and Martin imagines he can hear tape static in the sighing of his breath. He curves his hand around the sharp edges of Jon’s face, and strokes his fingers through the close-cropped part of his hair, soft and fuzzy with new growth.

Eventually, they are driven out of the comfort by Jon’s bladder and the insistence of the day. Martin decides to go into the village to buy more firewood and petrol, and Jon farewells him at the door with an anxious smile, and a kiss to the cheek that Martin feels for the entire walk there, on-and-off drizzle be damned.

Jenny asks after “Samir”, and Martin is pleased to tell her that he’s been feeling a little better, thanks for asking. He picks up some apples at the greengrocer while it’s open, and wonders what it takes to make an apple crumble that doesn’t come from a freezer, then makes the mistake of saying as much to the lady who runs the shop when she asks what he’s planning. In the end, he walks back to the cabin with a scribbled recipe and a few extra groceries, including two new spices to add to Jon’s collection.

The man himself greets Martin at the door as if he never left it, anticipating his arrival, so Martin offloads the extra bag on him while he goes to stash the firewood and fuel in the shed. Jon follows on his heels, rifling through the bag.

“What’s all this?”

“Oh,” Martin grunts as he yanks the shed door open along the rough groove it makes in the dirt. “I was thinking of making an apple crumble?”

When he glances over his shoulder, Jon is turning the shabby recipe over in his fingers as if scrutinising the handwriting.

“So you got a recipe off a stranger in the village?” he asks, frowning at the list of ingredients. “Not much in here, is there?”

Martin, busy stacking firewood in the damp shadows, shrugs.

“I think that’s the point,” he says, mostly to the generator. “I told Danai I don’t cook much, and she said she knew just the thing.” Jon’s eyes are sharp on him when he goes back to the door for the petrol can. “What?”

“You’re making friends with the locals,” Jon points out. “We’re not going to be here forever, you know.”

Martin shrugs again, more awkwardly now.

“It’s not my fault,” he protests weakly as he heaves the can into its place next to the empties (they really ought to deal with those soon…). “They’re just friendly.”

“They could be Hunters in disguise,” says Jon. “Or Strangers. They could mention us to the police by accident, and then Section 31 will be on our doorstep—”

“Yeah, and the world could end tomorrow,” Martin says, rolling his eyes and cutting Jon off. “I’m not being _reckless,_ Jon,” he continues, as he starts shoving the door closed again behind him. “And I don’t think there’s any way we were going to manage staying here without being noticed, least of all because these people don’t have a lot to gossip about, and our neighbours at Lost noticed the first day there was smoke coming from the chimney.” He shuts the padlock with a heavy _click!_ , and turns to Jon with a pre-set glare which melts as soon as he sees the expression of mild worry on the other man’s face.

“I’m just…” Jon tries, then stops himself with a sigh. “Being paranoid,” he finishes dryly. Martin huffs a laugh, and holds out one arm. Jon comes to him almost immediately, shuffling in to shove his face into Martin’s chest and wrap his free arm around his back, the recipe crinkling against his damp coat.

“A bit of a paranoia’s probably warranted,” Martin admits. “Thanks for looking out for us.”

Jon squeezes his waist with his arm, so Martin squeezes back. After a quiet moment like that, Jon shuffles around, jostling the bag down to his elbow and drawing his other arm back in to scrutinise the recipe again while Martin cards his fingers through his fine hair, vaguely trying to memorise the strands of grey.

“Well,” Jon concludes, “I’m not much of a baker. But this seems decent enough.”

Jon is remarkably patient in showing Martin how to properly cut the apples into slices just the right size for stewing without losing their shape. He makes Martin mix together the crumble, which should be easy — it’s just mashing butter, sugar, flour, and oats together with his hands — but still makes him nervous. Only once he’s thoroughly covered in powder and grease does Jon crack a smile and tell him he’s done a good job. Martin wants to snog the smug expression off his face. He doesn’t.

The crumble goes in the oven while they eat leftover stir-fry, with Martin practically sweating with nerves about how it will turn out. He needn’t have worried, of course: the dessert is a little plain, but sweet and tasty, and fully cooked, and Jon nods in approval in that way he has that is too proud to admit that even The Archivist can enjoy simple pleasures.

Afterwards, Martin remembers that it’s Sunday and they should be relaxing. He deposits Jon on the sofa the second they finish washing up, lights fires in both the living room and bedroom, and only needs to bite his lip and glance at the cushions for Jon to smile, small and fond, and beckon for Martin to join him. Martin tries not to crush Jon, but the scrawny man doesn’t seem to mind, just pulls Martin on top of him until he is lying over Jon’s entire left side, head nestled on Jon’s chest and with just enough room to prop Mary Oliver up on his stomach to read. Jon dozes intermittently, a schlocky-looking romance novel abandoned on the floor, and Martin can hear the steady beat of his heart under his ear, and feel the rise and fall of his breaths. It is overwhelmingly comforting to be given so intimate and visceral a reminder of Jon’s presence and continued life, and between poems, Martin wonders how long it will be until he stops noticing it altogether; until he stops quietly rejoicing every so often that the man he loves is alive after all.

“Jon,” he mutters, long after the sun has gone down and they really ought to have switched off the power. Jon mumbles something incoherent, and wriggles underneath him. Smirking, Martin levers himself up onto his elbow amidst the sinking cushions to look at Jon’s face: there is no Watcher’s glow under his eyelids, just the stubborn refusal to properly wake up, while his glasses are pushed up onto his head and making his hair stick out at odd angles.

 _“Jon,”_ Martin says, louder this time, and Jon’s groan matches his volume as a crease appears between his brows.

 _“What,”_ he intones like the Cave of Wonders disturbed in its slumber, and Martin can’t help but beam at him, even if he can’t see it.

“Listen to this one,” he says, settling back down and adjusting his grip on his book to better see the page.

“Oh, uh,” Jon protests awkwardly, craning now to look down his chest at Martin — “I-I don’t think that’s necess—”

“Just shut up and listen,” says Martin, “I promise it’s a good one. It’s called ‘Song for Autumn’.” And so he begins to read aloud, before Jon can make any more complaint.

> _In the deep fall,_
> 
> _don’t you imagine the leaves think how_
> 
> _comfortable it will be to touch_
> 
> _the earth instead of the_
> 
> _nothingness of air and the endless_
> 
> _freshets of wind? And don’t you think_
> 
> _the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,_
> 
> _warm caves, begin to think_
> 
> _of the birds that will come — six, a dozen — to sleep_
> 
> _inside their bodies? And don’t you hear_
> 
> _the goldenrod whispering goodbye,_
> 
> _the everlasting being crowned with the first_
> 
> _tuffets of snow? The pond_
> 
> _vanishes, and the white field over which_
> 
> _the fox runs so quickly brings out_
> 
> _its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its_
> 
> _bellows. And at evening especially,_
> 
> _the piled firewood shifts a little,_
> 
> _longing to be on its way._

There is a long moment of silence after he finishes, long enough for Martin to feel a bit self-conscious about the recital. But he’s spent half his time in this cottage, it feels, resisting the urge to show or read a poem to Jon whenever he finds one that strikes his particular fancy or sets his heart beating faster. He likes these little snippets of life and feeling, and the things he likes, he wants to share with Jon.

Martin stares at the page a little longer, before turning it to look over the next poem. “I don’t know,” he says, shrugging as best he can while squashed between Jon and the sofa back, “I just liked it. It being autumn right now and all. And the image of the trees welcoming the birds and saying goodbye, and the firewood shifting like ours does — that feeling of getting ready, and settling in —”

“Martin,” Jon’s voice cuts him off, almost hoarse with how gentle he has become — “stop talking.”

He snorts a laugh, with a little twinge in his stomach at the anti-climax, but Jon interrupts him again before he can voice the feeling.

“Come up here please,” he rasps, and swallows audibly. Frowning, Martin closes the book over his finger and looks up at Jon, shuffling heavily about to get his arm under him again and kick at the cushions to try and look Jon in the eye.

“Everything all right?”

Jon is staring at him, eyebrows turned down at the edges and lips parted. As Martin waits for an explanation, he watches Jon’s eyes dart between his own, then down to his mouth, and he swears his heart skips a beat. He isn’t thinking — surely — he doesn’t mean…

“I want to kiss you,” Jon whispers. “Properly. I mean on — on the mouth. I-I…”

All thoughts of holding his place in Mary Oliver disappear from Martin’s head, replaced by a blank shock, a hopeful void, a litany of _Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!_ He lets the book drop from his hand to join the romance novel on the floor, and shifts his weight so he is holding himself up with both arms, bracketing Jon’s chest and bringing them closer to level with each other.

“You-y— you’re sure?” he breathes, even though he is already barely able to keep himself from just gawping at Jon’s mouth, suddenly so very much more inviting. “I-I don’t want you to feel like I’m — I mean, you don’t need to — why now?”

Jon huffs a thready laugh, and extracts his right arm to press his fingertips to Martin’s cheek, the pattern just unusual enough to suggest the mapping, again, of his freckles.

“I just… I wanted to be sure,” he hums. “Sure that I wanted it, that I’d be comfortable — that I really — I don’t know, just — sure.”

“And poetry made you sure?”

Jon puts on an expression of dour disapproval, all too familiar from those early months in the Archives except for the sparkle at the corner of his eye. “No,” he drawls, “Mary Oliver can take absolutely no credit for this certainty.”

“Ah, so you just wanted me to shut up then,” Martin quips, and it’s enough to make Jon poke him in the side with the hand still curved around his hip, pressing a squeaking giggle from his chest.

 _“No,”_ says Jon again, even more forcefully. “I just — I don’t know.” His voice goes abruptly breathy again, sinking back into a hazy kind of sentiment. “God, do you have any idea how cute you are?”

Martin’s never really _felt_ particularly cute, but the question from Jon seems to answer itself. He swallows against the tidal wave of affection and reverence that threatens to overcome him, and perhaps it’s just gravity, perhaps it’s the way Jon is still glancing at his mouth and sliding his hand around to the back of his neck, but Martin finds himself leaning closer.

“So, kissing then,” Martin breathes. “Any boundaries I should know about?”

“Just go slowly.” Martin feels the puff of Jon’s breath against his lips when he speaks, barely able to see the way that Jon’s eyes are going heavy-lidded, the green in them bright against their usual blackness. “And go easy on me — it’s been a while. I think my heart can only take so much.”

“Uh-huh…” Martin is so close that he can sense the warmth radiating from Jon’s face, can almost taste his breath on his tongue. The air between them is warm and thick, and it feels like his whole body is on fire and steeped in ice at once, thrilling with anticipation, with the knowledge that Jon wants this as much as him, enough to strain his neck and tip up his chin to try and close the distance.

“Trust me,” Martin adds, almost inaudible even to himself, tilting his head a degree to the left to avoid Jon’s nose — “if anyone’s going to have a heart attack here, I think it’s going t—”

He’s never able to finish the sentence: with a tightening of his fingers in the edge of Martin’s hair, Jon pulls them together. Martin’s heart stops for a full second, he’s sure, before making up for the loss by galloping back into action, drumming in his chest. Their lips are a bit mismatched like this, Martin’s mouth half-open with the cut-off words, and it takes him a moment to remember to close his eyes and try to focus. Jon is so _warm_ against him. His lips are dry, the tip of his nose is touching Martin’s cheek, and he sucks in a breath while his hands press harder and harder against Martin, grasping for a better hold, a closer one. Jon kisses him like it’s the only thing he can possibly think to do, like it will keep him breathing, keep his blood thrumming through his veins, and Martin knows the feeling as he sinks into him and closes his lips around Jon’s, wetting them just slightly.

After a long moment in which time almost certainly stands still, Martin recognises the need to breathe, and that he’s rather reached the end of this particular kiss. He draws back, just far enough to be able to draw in a breath, the bud of his top lip catching on Jon’s. He opens his eyes, but is still too close to Jon to be able to make out more than a blur of skin and dark eyes, and a flash of iridescent green. He feels like he’s been shattered into a million pieces. He feels like he’s been put together again.

He feels like a man who just kissed the love of his life for the first time.

“Well,” Martin breathes, as Jon’s fingers wind a little deeper into his hair at the nape of his neck. “I think I might be in heaven.”

“Don’t sell me too highly,” Jon says, voice cracking at the edges. “I’m years out of practice. And even then, I’m not sure that anyone would have call—”

Payback, it turns out, tastes like the lingering tang of apple crumble, sweet and buttery. A low, tight sound escapes Jon’s throat, and Martin imagines it hitting the back of his own tongue like syrup. At last, Jon buries his fingers in the fluffy white pile of Martin’s hair, disallowing any retreat on the off-chance that Martin was thinking about it.

He wasn’t. As soon as one kiss ends, his lips coming together on Jon’s, he tilts his head a little further, slanting his mouth over Jon’s and pressing him deeper into the sofa. Without thinking, his eyes have closed again, and he feels himself slip into the rhythm of it, his chest buzzing with sensation, his whole brain reduced to one command: _more._ One kiss turns into another, and another, getting slicker and smoother as they go, and now Martin is all but straddling Jon’s leg, Jon following him around as he angles his head until they are almost teetering over the edge of the sofa before Martin has the wherewithal to heed Jon’s tugging hands and pull off far enough to roll back into place and duck around to the other side of Jon’s nose. Halfway through the next long, languid connection, Jon licks his own lips to moisten them, and his tongue flicking against the very edge of Martin’s lip forces a high, winded, desperate sound out of his chest as he holds himself over Jon and tries to remember how to breathe.

“All right?” Jon pants up at him, his hand leaving Martin’s hair only to grip at the back of his jumper, pushing and pulling with the same, slow rhythm of their kissing. Martin cannot find the words to say just how _all right_ he is, with every limb tingling with satisfaction, so he answers with a dumbfounded nod, and by diving back into the fray. Jon hums his understanding, and opens his mouth under Martin’s without being urged, and there is something about that particular feeling — the bitter, humid air trapped between them, promising touch and wetness and union, but not yet, not before they have exhausted what lips alone can do, the shift and hitch and slide of them, Jon’s beard (he _has_ trimmed it!) prickling at the edges — that makes Martin unable to think of anywhere he would rather be than here, lying on top of Jonathan Sims and kissing him tenderly without any tongue, not so much waiting for the right moment as enjoying the languorous journey to get there, the short, involuntary groan at the back of his throat matched by Jon’s rich voice. With Jon’s lips pursed around the full flush of his bottom lip, Martin digs his left hand out from where it has slid under Jon’s shoulder, jostling them so that Jon’s smile lands on his chin for a moment before they realign, mouths slotting together, noses brushing. Martin holds himself up on one arm long enough to sweep back the locks of hair over Jon’s forehead with his freed hand, pushing his glasses further back and coming to rest with the edge of Jon’s ear curled against the heel of his palm, once more shifting the angle of the kiss.

He can’t keep track of time. If he pays attention to the sounds they’re making, he’ll get self-conscious about it, but if he stops listening to Jon’s heavy breathing, and the abrupt, keening sounds in his throat, he might expire on the spot. And maybe the man isn’t very experienced — at one point, Martin needs to actually tap his fingers on the underside of Jon’s chin to make him stop trying to unhinge his jaw — but he’s also a keen observer and a quick learner, and Martin has no need for his breathy apologies except that they give him a chance to smile, and knock their teeth together when he goes back for more too early in the sentence. The jolt of pain is momentary; the memory of Jon’s face when he pulls back to giggle at them both, flushed dark and panting wet, should last a lifetime, it’s that stunning.

Martin smiles through the next kiss, too, though he’s a little more careful with his teeth. Jon’s hand roams slowly, sliding up the side of Martin’s neck, then fisting in the back of his jumper, then carding through his hair, then dipping under his clothes to press warm fingertips to the skin between his shoulder blades. Martin is more constrained by their position, too busy trying to prop himself up so his full weight isn’t lying on Jon’s chest, but he finds that if he tips himself to the right (capturing the far corner of Jon’s top lip that has yet gone untasted), Jon will follow him, freeing space above the cushions to let Martin cup the base of his skull, the short hairs there bristling against his palm as Jon’s throat clicks with a swallow and a gasp.

With a jerk of the arm and leg trapped under Martin’s bulk, Jon shoves himself back, rolling them both further onto their sides, and in a blur of movement, he puts his back to the fire and leans down to engulf the corner of Martin’s mouth in wet and heat, dragging a shattered moan out of his chest. Martin paws at the nape of Jon’s neck, guiding him back down into alignment, and as their lips slot together again, slick with spit now and almost lethargic with their indulgence, they slip into a more comfortable position on their sides, Martin sandwiched between Jon and the back of the sofa as Jon bends his knee and hooks Martin’s leg between his own, holding him in place. Martin’s fingers accidentally knock loose an arm of Jon’s glasses, and when Jon rises even more to tilt his head and kiss Martin into the cushions, there is a muffled clatter, and he knows that the glasses have been lost under the coffee table.

And then —

_And then —_

Jon licks his lips again, the soft underside of his tongue brushing Martin’s bottom lip, and Martin’s breath catches in his throat. Then Jon does it _again,_ swiping the narrow edge of his tongue towards the corner of Martin’s mouth, and he realises that Jon isn’t licking his own lips, but —

Martin stiffens, his left hand fisting against the back of Jon’s head, just catching some longer hairs between his first two fingers, and can only open his mouth and groan his assent, prompting a breathless chuckle from Jon. His half-hearted beard scratches Martin’s chin when he pulls back for a breath, but the idea of parting is unconscionable, and Martin opens his hand again, urging Jon close so he can kiss him again, licking the flat of his tongue against the corner of Jon’s top lip, catching on his teeth. Jon gasps against his mouth, folding back down to the cushions, the slender curve of his bottom lip a hard line against the fullness of Martin’s, and when Martin curls out his tongue, he can feel the difference between Jon’s chewed and chapped lip, and the silky inside edge pressed against his teeth.

Then Jon does the same to him, and Martin feels a prickle in his scalp which shudders its way down his body, washing his arms with goose pimples and curling his toes in his socks. Jon’s tongue is smooth and wet, and suggests the bitterness of tea and the sweetness of apples amidst a familiar-unfamiliar taste of sour spit and unbrushed teeth. Martin groans and grasps at the nape of Jon’s neck to hold him close, gasping a breath between kisses and trying again even as Jon’s hand moves against him, stroking under his jaw and over his cheek and ear before Jon buries his fingers in Martin’s hair again, gently clutching, releasing, and clutching again. Martin’s face is pressed into the cushion now, the end of his nose buried against Jon’s cheek, and though Jon is tentative at first with this new development, he grows more comfortable with each kiss, his tongue now hard, now soft against Martin’s, quick touches alternating with long swipes along Martin’s lips and teeth, drawing up the side of his tongue or pressing flat to flat. Jon sucks on one side of Martin’s top lip, lets him lick the underside of his tongue, helps slide their open mouths together, and shifts on top again just so he can give a luxurious sigh and melt into him.

They can’t last much longer after that. Martin’s lungs start to itch with his shallow breaths, and he learns that Jon becomes a sloppy kisser when exhausted. Martin turns his head aside to gulp down some air, and Jon keens at the loss of contact, dragging his lips down Martin’s cheek and over the round of his jaw and chin. With a winded laugh, Martin turns back and closes his mouth over Jon’s, inhaling deep the smell of sweat, and firewood, and saliva on skin, and the laundry still hanging above them. At last, Jon settles back down into the cushion, and as they catch their breaths, Martin basks in the little kisses Jon peppers on his mouth and cheeks, returning them with slow sips of Jon: the tip of his tongue, the purse of his lips, under the edge of his moustache. He keeps his hand in Jon’s hair, brushing through the greying strands, even as Jon cups his cheek, grazes the corner of his mouth with his thumb, and comes to rest in the fold where Martin’s thick neck meets his shoulder.

“So,” Martin whispers, chest still heaving.

“So,” Jon echoes, just as breathless. Martin grins wearily at him.

“Kissing’s good, then?”

Jon doesn’t answer, at first; just leans in to press a long, languid kiss to his mouth, only pulling back far enough to brush the end of his nose against Martin’s, settling in. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse, but happy.

“I think we can safely say that kissing is good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I put it off for as long as possible, but of _course_ I had to write an incredibly indulgent kissing scene...
> 
> 'Song for Autumn' is included in full, but the other Mary Oliver referenced was ['The Real Prayers Are Not the Words, but the Attention that Comes First'](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=42419).
> 
> Come talk to me at [@cuddlytogas](http://cuddlytogas.tumblr.com) on Tumblr!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, the Eye returns with a vengeance.

Martin gets another long, slow snog in with Jon before bed that night. He doesn’t remember his dreams, and when he eases into wakefulness, Jon is already looking at him with green eyes and a fond expression.

“See anything interesting?” Martin mumbles into the pillow, sucking up some drool and rolling onto his side. Jon’s smile widens as Martin turns to face him even though he’s still half-asleep, slack-jawed and rumpled and barely able to open his eyes for more than a moment. Jon doesn’t answer at first, instead wriggling one arm out from the warmth of the blankets to brush the backs of his fingers across Martin’s cheek, sending a shiver across his shoulders.

“Nothing the Eye appreciates,” he finally says, rumbling into the morning. He opens his hand, pressing his palm to Martin’s jaw, and shuffles close enough to place a kiss on the end of his nose and burrow back into the pillows closer than before. “Lots of things to like, though.”

Martin doesn’t know what to do with that. He’s hardly equipped to handle such open affection at the best of times, let alone first thing in the morning, let alone from Jon. He rubs some of the grit out of his eyes, and squints one open long enough to find Jon’s other hand and pull it to his face so he can kiss his knuckles; it leaves Jon’s hand in the perfect position to turn in Martin’s grip, and trace the outlines of his mouth. Martin shivers again, and pushes his lips together to give a lazy kiss to Jon’s fingers as well; Jon’s sharp intake of breath hisses from this close.

“Give me a minute to wake up,” Martin slurs, grasping Jon’s hand close. “I’m going to kiss every inch of you before the day’s out.” Jon’s laugh is breathless, and it strikes Martin that it could be from nerves, so he adds, “If you’d like that, that is. But I’m just saying, _I’d_ really like to. Really, really like to.”

“Why?” asks Jon. His smile is audible, and there is a tight sensation in Martin’s chest and throat, like something is being pulled out of him.

“Because you’re hot, and I love you, and I’m sick of people hurting you,” he answers, a little more bluntly than intended. Jon’s hands tighten, and only then does Martin realise what’s happening, and that the green of Jon’s eyes is bright enough now to tint the light bleeding through his eyelids.

That wakes him up. He blinks hard, and faces Jon’s horrified expression as he pulls away far enough to no longer be blurry.

“I’m so sorry,” Jon gasps. “I — I didn’t mean — I-I wasn’t thinking —”

Martin’s heart is aching even as it jolts with a surge of adrenaline, thrumming with the horror of being known and controlled, of being peeled open and invaded in search of uncomfortable truths.

Then again… it’s _Jon._ Martin’s not sure he even knows how to be afraid of him, not completely.

“Okay, it’s okay,” he sighs, and pulls Jon’s hand close again to kiss his knuckles, over and over, as he searches for the words. “You didn’t mean to,” he continues, “right?”

 _“No,”_ Jon bursts out. “God, no, of course not, I would never—”

“Okay,” Martin breathes again, and meets his uncanny eye, trying to convey just how willing he is to forget this. “It was just a slip. You’re — you’re hungry.”

“Yes,” Jon whispers.

“And you’re —” Martin sighs, deep and heavy, and kisses Jon’s hand again, over each tiny, pitted scar. “Malevolent beings and no easy solutions.” His heart breaks as he says it, and from the sound that escapes Jon’s throat, so does his. “You’re still trying. Right?”

_“Yes.”_

“All right then.” Martin meets Jon’s eye with a tight smile, and pushes Jon’s sleeve up far enough to kiss the scar on the back of his wrist, and the one a little further up on his forearm. A few inches more, he knows, and he’ll reach the end of the “breadknife” scar, the narrow, jagged slit from Michael’s fingers. For a moment, he can’t think for desire, awash with the need for Jon, the longing to replace every violent mark with one of comfort and love.

“So,” he murmurs, and closes his lips over the bone of Jon’s wrist. “About the kissing every inch of you…”

Jon huffs a laugh, then immediately reins it in. “Maybe not _every_ inch,” he drawls. “But I’d like that. Only if you let me reciprocate, though. It’s only fair.”

Martin grins, and pushes Jon’s sleeve up as far as it will go, pushing up onto his arm and dragging kisses along the thin line of scar tissue he finds until it curves around Jon’s elbow and under the flannel. Jon stops him there by also pushing up, and curling around Martin’s head and neck, engulfing him in softness and warmth and peppering kisses behind his ear.

“Not just yet though,” Jon hums as he drags his fingers through Martin’s hair, fluffing it from where it has been flattened by the pillow. “It’s time to get up.”

It’s a Monday, which means the shops in the village will all be open, and they have time for a proper run without needing to weigh themselves down with firewood and fuel. The air outside is brisk and autumnal, with an unpredictable wind that dies down for long minutes at a time, then suddenly tries to force its way through the folds of coats and scarves. Jon digs the pink hat out of the dresser again, and Martin takes the time to tug the edges down over Jon’s ears before they leave, putting him in the perfect position to tilt Jon’s head up and place a long, gentle kiss on his pouting lips.

It ends up delaying their departure for about ten minutes, but Martin can’t find it in himself to feel bad about that. Not when it leaves his face warm enough to stave off the chill of the breeze until they reach the Stewart field.

“That one,” Martin says, pointing at a particularly fat and fluffy specimen on the far side of the slope, and Jon nods.

“Yes,” he agrees solemnly, “a very good cow indeed.”

They’re an extra few minutes late after that, but it’s hardly Martin’s fault that his boyfriend _(his boyfriend!)_ is irresistible.

A text from Saturday comes through on their burner phone when they get into the village — Basira informing them that she’s sent off a package in as few words as possible — so they give her a call while standing on the bridge and watching the river burble underneath them, exchanging reassurances of each other’s safety before the bad connection forces them to cut the conversation short. Then it’s back and forth between the few shops, buying meat and eggs, bread and milk, and tins of coconut cream, Martin carrying the heavy bags while Jon’s breath flutters in his chest. They’re starting to run out of cash, and Martin hopes against hope that the police drop their search before he’s forced to use the one debit card he’s kept as a backup. The grocer's is last, Martin thanking Danai over the counter for the crumble recipe and declaring its deliciousness.

“After all,” he says while Jon beelines for the pears, “if even _I_ couldn’t ruin it, it has to be good!”

He chats with her for a moment longer, getting an update on her wife and their dog, before he leaves her to another customer and joins Jon, dropping a punnet of blueberries into the basket atop a bunch of green bananas.

“I hope you don’t mind carrots in your massaman,” Jon says as Martin joins him, piling said vegetable and potatoes into the basket.

“Listen,” Martin laughs, “you’re a lot closer to knowing what’s right than I am. But carrots are nice.”

“And I’ll need more chillies,” Jon adds, as he moves down the shelves to grab handfuls of knobbly ginger and garlic with an expression of intense focus. “Have you seen any lemongrass?”

Martin beams at him, and resists the urge to bury his face in Jon’s neck and kiss him silly. He has a feeling PDA isn’t exactly Jon’s thing, and frankly, it isn’t Martin’s either; but this early in his bliss, he can’t help but feel a little disappointed at missing out on the chance to make Jon blush and fidget, to shower him with love and affection.

“I think it might be with the herbs?” he says instead of the outpouring in his head, turning to examine the far side of the shop. “I assume you’ll want coriander, too.”

Jon hums an affirmative, so Martin leaves the bags with him and heads off with no abatement of his soppy grin to gather red chillies and a pungent bunch of leaves, and scan the shelves for lemongrass. He barely knows what he’s looking for, but nonetheless, it doesn’t seem to be there. Perhaps the Spar will have some in a jar?

“Looks like we’re out of luck,” he throws over his shoulder to Jon. “Anything you want to use as a substitute?” There’s no response for a moment, so Martin turns a little further until he can catch a glimpse of Jon, calling, “Samir?”

Except Jon isn’t elbow deep in a crate of onions, as Martin expected. He’s not distracted by picking out the largest peppers, or weighing limes in his hands. He isn’t facing the shelves at all.

Instead, Jon is turned towards the storefront, where Danai is chatting amiably with the other customer, an older man Martin is sure he recognises from around the village. Jon is staring at the man with laser-like intensity, focused and unmoving, the plastic basket hanging at the end of his slack arm. His irises are fully green again, and even from this distance, Martin can see it starting to overtake his pupils.

 _“Samir,”_ says Martin, more firmly this time, as he takes a few, careful steps across the room. Jon doesn’t respond, even though they’ve practiced responding to their fake names; instead, he drops the basket with a clattering _smack!_ , and starts to walk towards the counter.

Cold fear crawls down Martin’s spine, and he is moving before he can even think, impelled by the familiar, invasive feeling building at the back of his mind, the unmistakeable presence of the Eye. He darts in front of Jon, blocking his way to the front of the shop, and grabs his shoulder with one hand, holding the other fist full of chillies against his chest. Jon doesn’t even look at him: he just keeps staring straight ahead, as if seeing through Martin to the counter, to the old man — to his prey.

“Stop,” Martin orders. Jon doesn’t blink, just pushes against his hands as if impelled forwards. Martin tightens his grip while his stomach drops, and resists the urge to use Jon’s real name.

“Love, _stop,”_ he growls, and when Jon still doesn’t respond, he throws down the chillies and herbs, snatching at Jon’s shoulders with both hands when he starts to walk around him.

 _“Please,”_ Martin grits out, again stepping between Jon and the man, hunching down to try and meet his irradiated gaze. For one, terrifying second, he meets Jon’s eyes and they focus on him instead of the stranger, flaring until they are fully covered in that bright, unnatural green, open far too wide. Martin is pinned in place while Jon looks directly through him, while Beholding drills into his skull and slices his skin, and picks out a memory of shadowy stone and discarded worms, and a strange, cluttered room, and a desiccated corpse stained rusty red with three neat holes in its chest, and — and —

Martin clenches his jaw, and raises his hands to either side of Jon’s face, and cries, _“Stop!”_

All of a sudden, Jon blinks, and Martin can see his pupils again. He opens his mouth and gasps, and only then does Martin realise that Jon hasn’t been breathing. The faint murmur of conversation by the counter has gone silent, and Martin spares half a thought to hope that he is blocking Danai’s view as he focuses all of his energy on whispering, “It’s okay, you didn’t hurt me, you’re safe, you didn’t hurt anyone,” while Jon’s chest heaves and his hands fly up to grasp Martin’s wrists. A moment later, Jon starts to tremble all over, and a low, weak sound trickles out of his mouth, and when he blinks again, his eyes well with tears, pupils and whites visible again.

Then Jon’s knees buckle, and Martin cries out, diving down to catch him. He can hear Danai’s voice and the man from the village, but none of that matters compared to the full, shivering weight of Jon in his arms, the way his fingers are clutched in Martin’s coat sleeves, the faint sobs coming from his throat. Martin tries to think of more comforting nonsense to whisper as he adjusts his grip on Jon, wrapping his arms around his waist, then devolves into empty shushing noises that he is fully aware will do nothing to help the starving Archivist. He carefully lowers them both to the cold, damp floor, Jon’s legs folding awkwardly against the counter under a tray of parsnips, trying to kneel as smoothly and slowly as possible.

“Is everything okay?” Danai is saying, flustered and worried, crouching down on the other side of Jon and clutching her thin, brown apron between her hands. “What happened to him?”

“It’s fine,” Martin forces out, even though it so very obviously isn’t. His voice cracks over the lie. “He’ll be fine, he’s just — it’s just —”

He doesn’t know what to say. Danai’s dark, round face is swimming in his vision, and the worst thing is that there is _nothing Martin can do._ There is no injury to heal, and no sickness to cure; there are statements in the post, but he can’t make them arrive any faster, nor can he let Jon attack anyone in the meantime. All he can do is tuck Jon’s face against his chest to make sure that no one else sees his horrible eyes, and try to offer what little comfort he can until the fit passes.

“He’s not well,” Martin finally finishes, because Jenny has already assumed as much, and they might as well lean into the lie. Jon is in pain; Jon is becoming a monster; Jon is starving and crying into his shirt, and there is _nothing that Martin can do._

Then Danai releases her apron, and claps her hand together.

“Roger, can you mind the shop for me?” she says over Martin’s shoulder. “I need to get these two home.”

“What?” Martin frowns. “No, we — we’ve already imposed enough, it’s — I can’t even put back our basket, it’s —”

“You’re not putting back anything,” she snaps, already standing and picking up the basket in question, tossing in the chillies and coriander from where Martin discarded them. “Was there anything else you needed?” she says, picking up the rest of their shopping, heedless of how Martin is gaping at her.

“I — wh— n-no, I don’t think so?” he says. “Um — it’s not me who — he’s the cook…”

“That’s all right, you can call if you’ve forgotten something.”

“B-but we haven’t even paid —”

Danai just cuts him off again, kind but firm.

“You can pay next time you’re in,” she says, fishing a loud handful of keys from her pocket. “I’ll figure out how much it is. The van is just around the back — can he walk?”

Martin doesn’t know what to say to that. His mind has gone blank. He can’t even fall back on his usual plan: it’s hard to be unassuming when he’s kneeling on the floor with the man everyone thinks is his fiancé curled up in his arms, sobbing and too weak to stand.

There is another part of that strategy that he can do, however: _play along._ The lie twinges in his chest, but it’s like they already agreed: the truth would only be more upsetting.

Cancer or a nebulous blood disorder it is.

“I can carry him,” Martin hears himself saying, not even sure that that’s true but loath to risk anyone else by letting them near Jon when he’s this hungry, and this close to being more Archivist than human. He wonders if the only reason Jon hasn’t forced a statement from him yet is that the Eye has already claimed him; any statement of Martin Blackwood would be stale indeed.

“Thank you,” he adds, trying to inject it with the full weight of his gratitude and regret. Danai just nods, and adds a smile to her worried expression.

“It’s no problem at all. We look after our own, here.”

A vision of their future flashes before Martin’s eyes as he very carefully gathers Jon up in a bridal carry and awkwardly gets his feet underneath him, heaving himself up with only his protesting knees. What if they stayed here in Bellabeg, in the little cottage tucked into the valley past Lost, just the two of them? They can’t quit the Institute, but perhaps Basira could keep sending statements for Jon to live on, and Martin could do research from a distance, and they could survive without having to return to the palisaded building in London. Jon makes a pained sound when Martin adjusts his grip, and curls into his chest, looping his arms weakly around Martin’s neck, and Martin wonders what it might be like to hook Daisy’s cabin up to a proper power supply, get a water heater, and support themselves here in the middle of nowhere; to really become one of “our own”. To help out on the farms, maybe get a part-time job in the village, and give back to these people who have been so supportive to the virtual strangers who, unbeknownst to them, may have brought untold horrors into their midst.

Although, judging by Jon’s eyes, they must not be the first here to have encountered one entity or another.

Martin staggers a little under Jon’s weight, but pushes himself through it, following Danai out of the shop and around the corner to a dented, beat-up van, once white but now a sort of off-cream colour, mud splattered around the inefficient wheel covers. She rolls open the side door for them, placing the basket of groceries and the rest of their shopping inside and waiting in case Martin needs steadying. He appreciates the gesture: it’s a big step up, and he decides to lay Jon down on the floor of the van and climb up by himself rather than try to pull them both up at once. Once Danai has shut the door, the only light comes through the little window into the cabin at the front, and Martin takes the opportunity — before Danai can join them — to pull Jon’s head into his lap and brush the hair off his forehead.

“Jon?” he whispers. “Jon, please tell me you’re still there.”

Jon’s expression is tight, his eyes closed and his brow deeply furrowed; but still he reaches out, scrabbling at Martin’s arm until he understands, and takes Jon’s hand between both of his own. Jon’s free hand clutches at his coat, and he buries his face in Martin’s stomach.

“The End,” he hisses, over a hitch in his voice, something like pain or anticipation. “That man — he’s encountered the End, I can feel it.”

“It’s okay,” Martin soothes, still smoothing back Jon’s hair in a futile gesture of comfort. “Basira’s sending statements. You’ll be all right soon. It’s okay…”

An awful, hoarse, whining sound escapes Jon’s throat, like the creaking of tape static, and he clutches more tightly at Martin. In the darkness of the van’s cabin, the glow of his Seeing is visible even through his eyelids.

Then a clunk sounds from behind them, and the van rocks a little as Danai pulls herself up into the driver’s seat and twists around to check on them through the grated window.

“All set back there?” she says, and Martin cranes his neck to nod.

“Thank you,” is all he can say; then the engine coughs into life, and with a lurch, they drive off, a potato threatening to spill out of the basket. Martin mind races as they pull carefully out into the narrow street, trundling towards the intersection. If Danai sees the state of the safehouse, there’s no way they’ll escape suspicion: simply the amount of locks on the front door is alarming, let alone the ones on the bedroom door. The village inhabitants seem to have accepted quite easily that they’re survivalist types keen to sustain themselves on rainwater and a petrol generator, but surely the ancient stove and the bare-bones cupboards would spark questions about their standard of living, and who owns the cottage in the first place, and why they’ve appeared so suddenly…

Not to mention that their pants are still strung up across the living room.

The drive takes less than ten minutes, made longer than it should have been by Danai’s care as she navigates the bumpy gravel and dirt roads. Martin steadies himself against the walls, and the stack of empty crates roped down in the corner, always holding Jon to his body with one arm. By the time the van eases to a halt with only the smallest of jolts, Jon has stopped shaking, and when he pulls back enough to push himself up onto his hands, elbows and shoulders sticking out at angles, his eyes are red-rimmed and hollow-looking but he is no longer crying, and his dark irises are visible. Martin tilts forward, one hand on the floor and the other cupped around Jon’s cheek, thumb scratching through his bristly beard.

“How are you feeling?” he whispers, and Jon nods weakly.

“Better,” he replies. “In control.”

Martin can’t help it. He darts further forward, just enough to drop a peck on Jon’s lips, and even as Danai opens the side door with another heavy rumble, Jon relaxes minutely, leaning into Martin’s hand.

“Hope you didn’t get too banged up,” says Danai, with a light twinkle behind her eyes at the interruption. “I’ll carry the bags and you carry him?”

“No, it’s fine,” says Jon, though his low, scratchy voice would imply otherwise. “I can walk on my own.”

“Are you sure?” Martin says even as Jon awkwardly pushes himself off Martin and around to face the door. Much as he’d rather Danai not accompany them to the door, if it’s at the expense of Jon pushing himself too far…

“I’m sure.”

“It’s no trouble —” Danai starts, but just the shaking of Jon’s head is enough to quiet her as he eases himself down from the van, legs trembling but feet steady against the ground. He is already pulling the keys from his pocket as he heads for the front door of the cottage, so Martin scoots himself forward and says, “Mind helping me get these down?”

It keeps Danai’s back to Jon, at least, as they drag the bags and basket of groceries within reach, and she keeps her voice deferentially low as they talk.

“I don’t mean to pry, but — will he be all right?”

“Yeah, it’ll pass,” Martin sighs, adjusting the contents of one of the bags and not meeting her eye. “There’s not a lot to be done in the long term. Just something we have to live with.” He throws her a tight smile; it’s not entirely a lie, but she looks so sympathetic, he feels a bit bad about lying to her.

“Plenty of us in the village know first aid, you know,” she goes on, her tone growing firmer, “and there’s a GP down in Strathdon. I’m sure any one of us would be happy to give you a lift if you needed it.”

Martin hefts the largest bags onto his shoulders, and he has a feeling that his smile has grown tighter. “There’s not much a GP can do for him,” is all he can say.

“Even just for pain relief?”

God, Martin hates this.

“We know what works, and we’ve got some on the way.”

“All right,” Danai says, sounding sceptical. “And you know the hospital in Aberdeen is only an hour away, if you drive hard.”

“Thank you.” Martin swallows, and lifts the last bags in his hands, along with the basket from the store. “I’ll bring this back as soon as I have a chance. And — and pay what we owe for it all.”

“There’s no rush,” Danai smiles. She glances aside, and her smile grows a little wider. “Go on then — your man’s waiting for you.”

Martin follows her gaze to find Jon standing just inside the threshold of the cabin, leaning on the edge of the door and staring out at where Martin is standing. His heart leaps a little in his chest.

“Yeah,” he sighs, and even he has to smile at the way that Jon is waiting for him, not even lying down until he knows that Martin is close. “Thanks again.”

“You’re a good lad, Chris,” Danai says as she heaves the van door shut. “But you shouldn’t worry so much about bothering the rest of us. We all help each other in this wee village.”

Martin just nods, thinking about how Jon almost attacked one of the people in that village, and how there’s still every chance that they have led monsters to this peaceful place. Danai doesn’t wait around for him to find an awkward answer to that, just waves goodbye to Jon and rounds the front of the van, climbing back up into the driver’s seat. Martin trudges to the cabin, and as he ducks through the front door, Jon stops him with a palm on his chest, nudging the door shut behind them with his other hand.

“Thank you,” Jon murmurs, eyes lingering somewhere around Martin’s chin. “Without you, I — I would have —” His voice cracks, and drops to a whisper. “I’m sorry for what I would’ve done.”

“You apologise too much,” Martin sighs, leaning down to press a kiss to the corner of Jon’s mouth. From this close, he can feel how the gesture gets Jon to relax by a fraction, as his eyes fall closed over those rings of green and his hand drags up to hook the back of Martin’s neck.

“You didn’t do anything wrong this time,” Martin continues. “You get to be happy about that.”

“I’m a monster,” Jon drawls in response. “I refuse to be happy about _that.”_

Martin flattens his mouth and sighs through his nose. His throat is going tight, but he pushes through it.

“Don’t be a hypocrite,” he scolds, even though his voice squeaks a little. “Malevolent entities, remember? It’s not your fault, what Beholding’s done to you. It’s not your fault what _Magnus_ did to you. And you resisted this time.”

“Only because you were there to stop me.”

With his hands full of shopping, Martin is only able to nudge Jon’s furrowed brow with his nose in reproach.

“Team effort, then,” he says. “All the better.” Jon doesn’t look convinced, so he tries it again, rubbing his cheek against Jon’s forehead like a cat. “I’m here for you, Jon. Through all of it.”

That makes Jon smile, flat and weary but still sincere, and he steadies himself with his hands on Martin’s chest as he pushes up onto his toes and kisses him, small and slow. It sparks a glowing kind of feeling deep behind Martin’s sternum to combat the horror of the morning’s events, a feeling which persists even while his hands and arms start to protest.

“Mmh— sorry,” Martin mumbles, breaking off the kiss — “I really need to put all this down.”

Jon — tyrant that he is — just snorts a little laugh at him, and takes the time to peck quick kisses along his jaw and neck before standing back to let Martin pass and start heaving the shopping up onto the kitchen counters.

“Have a lie down,” Martin orders. “I’ll go turn the power on and make us a cuppa. Okay?”

“Okay,” Jon breathes, staring up at him from the other side of the counter with an almost silly smile on his face. “I love you.”

Martin feels his face go hot.

“Yep,” he says, “still not over hearing that.”

Jon laughs again on his way to the bedroom, and that alone is reward enough for any possible effort.

Martin gives Jon some extra time to sleep by taking down their washing, folding everything into neat piles on the coffee table. Then he turns on the power from the shed, makes tea and two sandwiches for lunch, and gently coaxes Jon out to the table, rumpled and ineloquent. After they’ve eaten, Jon scapes back his chair and wordlessly rounds the corner of the table to perch on Martin’s lap, wrap his arms around his neck, and proceed to snog him until his only thoughts are about Jon’s mouth, and hands, and _other parts,_ and the heaven of being able to press his hands to Jon’s hips and the small of his back under his clothes, his little fingers just peeking in under the waistband of his trousers.

He holds himself back, of course. Though Jon doesn’t react to the accidental touch with more than a satisfied hum and a tug on Martin’s collar, Martin remains cognisant of their agreement. Jon wants to go slow, so Martin will be able to go slow, even if it means he occasionally needs to squeeze his legs together while they make out, and force himself to rein it in for a minute or two.

After dinner (massaman curry with carrots turns out to be perfectly acceptable), Martin sits with his notebook propped up on Jon’s knees as the man devours a true crime novel, his legs thrown over Martin’s lap and the arm of the sofa, feet dangling in the fire-warmed air. Navigating the jumps as Jon adjusts his posture, or crosses and uncrosses his ankles, he manages to squeeze out a few disjointed lines of poetry: a line about Lost, and something about valleys, and the buffeting, deafening, revelatory wind in the countryside. He wants it to be a kind of homage to Wordsworth, a rebuttal to Romantic pastoralism that nevertheless admits to the wonders of nature. It may or may not be possible, but when Jon sees that he’s scratched _something_ out, his jaw actually drops open, and he shuffles close to press tender kisses to Martin’s chin and mouth, and that’s more than enough reward to make Martin feel satisfied at having written anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me at [@cuddlytogas](http://cuddlytogas.tumblr.com) on Tumblr!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Jon admits the truth.

Tuesday brings with it a bright, blazing sun, a last sally from summer that pushes the temperature back into the double digits. Jon drags Martin out on another walk, up the Water of Nochty then branching down a logging trail where they can admire the sheep and cows in the fields from a distance, and kiss without feeling too exposed. Jon gradually shuffles forward, urging Martin backwards step by step until there is a broken remnant of a branch digging into his shoulder, and bark scratching the back of his jumper, and he can slouch down low enough not to strain Jon’s neck.

The air is cold in the trees, especially once the sweat worked up by the walk has faded, but the heat of Jon’s mouth is an excellent antidote, so much so that Martin can forgive him for sticking his freezing fingers under his shirt to warm up against his sides. Once there, Jon falls into a languid rhythm of squeeze and release, flexing against Martin’s hips in time with their kissing.

(Martin checks, too, just to be certain. Sure enough, when he holds Jon’s head in place and speeds up the kiss, taking great, hurried gulps of Jon’s lips, his hands move tighter and faster; and by tilting his head and pulling back to make Jon lean into him, and drawing lazy strokes with his tongue, Martin can tempt a long, low, purring groan from Jon’s chest, and slow his hands down to one drawn-out grasp against his sides, warm and tugging himself closer.)

It's intoxicating. Martin knows very well that this will ease — that the insatiability of his sentiment will fade soon enough, and he’ll stop yearning to be in constant contact with Jon, regretting every second they spend doing anything but kissing — but that doesn’t stop the unending wave of need in the present, the driving desire that is more than happy to yield to Jon’s arms. He can only thank his lucky stars that Jon seems to be as starving for contact, even with his hesitations.

After twenty minutes, while Jon is reducing Martin to a puddle by very gently, _very slowly,_ angling their open mouths together, he breaks suddenly away with a high, cut-off sound of pain. He ducks his face and drives his forehead against Martin’s breastbone, to the point almost of stinging, and even as Martin blinks the haze of contentment from his eyes, he darts his arms down to encircle Jon’s back, sensing danger before he can consciously register it. He’s just in time: an instant later Jon sags, shaking and whining at the back of his throat. Terror strikes Martin like a bolt of lightning, and he quickly tries to regain a firmer footing, pulling Jon to his front to hold him up.

“It’s okay,” he whispers to the trees on the other side of the path as Jon hides his face in the crook of his neck, and Martin hates how normal it’s starting to feel, to have to help Jon through these sudden bouts of horror and hunger. He feels a swift, burning swell of tears, and swallows them down. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

A moment later, Jon extracts his hands from under Martin’s shirt to push them awkwardly, feebly upwards, looping around Martin’s neck for stability. Martin’s throat feels thick and tight as he adjusts his grip, sliding one hand further up Jon’s back to hold him steady.

It takes a long time for the spell to pass, with Jon letting out a helpless sob whenever the dizziness reaches a peak. Martin tries to comfort him, but he runs out of soothing words alarmingly quickly, and can only shush and hum meaninglessly for so long. He feels useless, powerless to help against the emptiness of Jon’s belly and his reliance on the torturing entity that they both hate so much, and can only hope that by his mere presence — by just holding Jon up and reminding him of reality — he will somehow be able to provide solace.

Martin deliberately doesn’t count the minutes. All he knows is that whenever Jon’s fingernails dig into the skin at the back of his neck, or he lets out another awful noise between his shuddering breaths, Martin closes his eyes and squeezes a little tighter. Eventually, Jon’s shivering subsides, and his arms grow firmer around Martin’s shoulders. He sniffles wetly, swallows, and lets out a long, bone-deep sigh, and Martin cranes his neck to press a delicate kiss to the top of his head.

“Tired?” he asks in a whisper. Jon sniffs again, and nods weakly, and Martin kisses him again in the cold mess of his windswept hair, before propping his chin up on Jon’s skull.

“Hungry?” he adds, hardly audible but for their proximity. Jon nods again, with a sob that makes his shoulders heave. Martin swallows again, hard, against another wave of impotent concern.

“I wish there was something I could do to make it stop.”

“There isn’t,” Jon mutters hoarsely into his neck. “Even if I could justify taking a statement from you, I don’t think…”

He trails off, and Martin glances down to see him squeeze his eyes shut under a heavy, suffering frown. There is a sense of building pressure around them, like the tension before a thunderstorm, and for a few seconds, Martin hears a faint whining like tinnitus in his ears; then Jon’s face clears, and he blows out a breath, and the sensation recedes.

“No,” Jon concludes. “The Eye’s already claimed you. It would only hurt you, and tide me over for a few hours. The only thing that would actually _help_ is…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, just hides his face in Martin’s jumper again. Martin gathers him closer, hands between his shoulder blades and on the back of his head. He swears to God, he’s going to make sure that Jonathan Sims gets to feel safe for once in his life, even if he has to fistfight the Ceaseless Watcher himself.

“Time to go home, I think,” he murmurs against Jon’s white temple, and Jon nods his assent. He draws back enough to take Martin’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and kiss him gently with a closed mouth, sending Martin’s heart fluttering, and when he pulls away, Martin can’t help but chase him, all but begging for more. The weak puff of laughter he gets on his lips in return only makes his situation worse, but it _is_ reassuring.

“Can you walk?” Martin asks softly, instead of just sinking to his knees and prostrating himself before Jon’s will.

“Yes,” Jon nods, though his hands don’t leave Martin’s when he steps back. “We’ll just have to… take it easy.”

And take it easy they do. For once, Jon doesn’t charge ahead of Martin’s more leisurely pace, but remains with both hands tucked into the crook of his elbow, occasionally resting his head against Martin’s shoulder for a few steps, as if his neck is too tired to hold it up for long. They get back to the cabin hungry and sore, and Martin turns on the power and reheats leftovers for lunch while Jon slumps over the dining table and stubbornly makes conversation.

Jon barely finishes half his plate, and Martin feels the burrow of worry in his stomach grow into a pit as he realises there’s no way it’s just coincidence anymore. Jon isn’t eating much — _hasn’t been_ eating much —while his supernatural hunger grows. He is forgetting his human body; that body is forgetting itself.

They’ve got enough to worry about, though, so Martin doesn’t bring it up. Besides, it’s obvious that Jon is aware of the pattern, if the sorrowful turn to his eyes is anything to judge by. So Martin finds a middle ground, resting his free hand over Jon’s once he pushes away his half-full plate, and finishing his own food one-handed while trying to give some gesture of solidarity and comfort.

Jon waits until Martin is finished eating, too, before he kisses the back of his knuckles and starts stacking the plates. And although Jon goes to bed first, worryingly early, he still wakes at the clicking of the bedroom locks when Martin joins him, and rolls over to drag himself across the small gap between them and glue himself to Martin’s side as usual.

The last thought that drifts across Martin’s mind are the words jotted down in the notebook on the coffee table, scribbled out in an unexpected flurry of inspiration in front of the living room fire while Martin started to think about brushing his teeth. They are still little more than disjointed fragments and a couplet, but he’s thinking about setting aside the Wordsworthian pastoral for something a little more… _him._

_Lost and found, lost and found,_

_We passed by lost and now we're found..._

They both shave the next morning, although Jon does little more than trim the edges of his beard, to Martin’s disappointment but not surprise. They boil enough water for a bath, too, once Martin has chopped some more wood, and Jon lets him go first this time to enjoy the sweet, simple pleasure of sinking into a hot, clean bath on a cold morning. Martin wishes he had the courage to ask Jon to join him, but can tell that it would be crossing a line. This is all still new, and there will be time for such conversations and indulgences later (he hopes).

Still, Jon takes paper and pen into the bedroom to figure out upcoming meals and shopping lists, and they leave the door open between them so they can hear but not see each other. Martin doesn’t bother fully dressing before he emerges; just pulls on fresh pants and a t-shirt before swapping over with Jon, with the bath half-drained and the kettle boiling. Jon doesn’t make a fuss, but Martin can feel his eyes following him as he crosses the room to fetch his poetry notebook, interested but comfortable with the novelty, and calls it a win for progress. Slow progress, of course, but still progress.

He sits on the bed, then, and conditions his hair while Jon has his own bath, occasionally jotting down lines of poetry or calling out requests for synonyms. When Jon emerges ten minutes later, he is barefoot and shirtless on either end of his cuffed trousers, skin flushed dark from steam and scrubbing, making his myriad scars stand out, and Martin can’t help but throw away his notebook at the sight as his stomach swoops and his heart jumps into his throat, trapped between desire and a touch of grief. He pushes himself to his feet, fully dressed by now, and joins Jon by the door, grabbing his startled hands from where he is towelling dry his hair and ducking down to kiss the side of his neck, right over a cluster of worm scars, nose buried in the folds of the towel. Jon yelps and jumps, perhaps at the ticklishness, then relaxes with a soft laugh, directing Martin’s arms around his waist and closing his own around Martin’s shoulders.

“You could have warned me,” he drawls, with a hint of the old dry superiority that used to so terrify Martin.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, unable to resist tightening his arms and burrowing deeper into the clean, damp warmth between Jon’s skin and the faded yellow towel, nosing it out of the way so he can drop kisses in a line from Jon’s neck to his shoulder. “Wrong move?”

“No, no,” Jon sighs, hands smoothing back and forth across Martin’s shoulder blades, easing the flutter in his chest down into low simmering. “Just surprised me, that’s all.”

Martin has to crouch slightly to get his mouth on Jon’s collarbone, but he does it gladly, kissing back up his neck and making him tip his head back with a tiny gasp.

“Y’know, that ‘kissing every inch of you’ plan…” Martin says, trying to sound off-hand and probably landing somewhere between nervous and sly. “It’s still on the table.”

“I _just_ had a bath, Martin,” Jon tuts. “Don’t undo all that hard work.”

Martin hums his disappointment, pursing his lips and pecking harder kisses along the freshly-trimmed line of Jon’s beard where it scratches against his nose. He skips up to Jon’s cheek, and finally Jon gives an annoyed grunt, and turns to catch Martin’s mouth with his. A moment later, he pulls the towel from his shoulder, flicks one end around Martin’s waist, and catches it on the other side, dragging him closer and forcing a nervous squeak from his chest.

When Martin pulls back to stare, it takes a second for him to catch the hint of mischief in the corner of Jon’s mouth, the smirk hidden behind a remarkably good imitation of seriousness.

“You smooth bastard!” Martin laughs, linking his own hands at Jon’s back and trying to school his expression. “Well, you’ve got me right where you want me, Archivist. Now what?”

“Eugh, don’t call me that,” Jon groans. “And in any case, no, I haven’t.”

“Oh, haven’t you?” Martin teases, even as Jon tugs on one end of the towel to turn them around, and starts backing up very slowly, easing each foot down bit by bit.

“No, not quite.” Jon bites his lip, then, and Martin realises that he’s pulling them towards the bed, and his chest goes tight and excited.

“I thought you _just_ had a bath.”

Jon _tsk_ s up at him, but doesn’t stop moving.

“Not for _that,”_ he says, crisp and judgemental for only a moment before his voice sinks back into something low and soft, almost nervous and utterly beguiling. “Just for… you know. I just mean — we haven’t, yet, not really. Kissed, I mean. On the bed. And…” His eyes dart aside, finding the words, and though Martin knows it’s not intentional, he also finds it incredibly seductive, captivated as he is by Jon’s every shift of expression.

“It might be comfortable,” Jon finishes, and again, the lick of his lips is surely uncertainty, but that doesn’t stop it from making Martin swoon internally. Jon’s calves hit the side of the bed, then, and though his breath is a little shaky, he pushes through it.

“So?” he asks, in that handsome voice that Martin would do anything for, eldritch powers or no.

“What are you bloody waiting for, me to have a _heart attack?”_ he gasps and finally gives in, darting down to capture Jon’s mouth. He can feel Jon smile triumphantly under him, and determines to wipe the look off in the most enjoyable way possible, catching Jon’s bottom lip between his own, then kissing short and sweet in a line along his top lip, until his mouth falls open with a panting breath, smug grin evaporated.

With just enough pressure, Jon has to lean back to be able to meet him, and at last he releases Martin from the damp towel, tossing it blindly to the foot of the bed and waiting for the end of a kiss to drop out of Martin’s arms and onto the mattress. Martin follows as if drawn by a rope, planting one knee beside Jon’s hip even as he starts to shuffle backwards, and steadies himself with his right hand while he cups the other around Jon’s neck and jaw, kissing him almost slantwise as they both struggle to align their bodies the right way around. Jon leans on one hand while the other grips through Martin’s freshly-soft hair, and slides their lips slowly together, gathering spit as they go; then swaps his hands around to hold Martin back for a second, breathing hard against his mouth and clambering to get both legs on the mattress and his head over the pillows, kicking the blankets down so they don’t end up lumped uncomfortably underneath them. Martin takes the opportunity to heave himself around — within the scope allowed by Jon’s hand in his hair, anyway — shifting closer and pulling his other leg up until he’s kneeling on either side of Jon’s narrow hips.

At which point all progress is stopped by Jon wrapping both arms tight around Martin’s neck to hold himself up underneath him and guide his mouth open with his own, humid and warm. He goes too wide again at first, but restrains himself as if satisfied with the experiment, pulling even tighter with his arms until his nose is pressed tight to Martin’s cheek, no glasses hindering his progress. Martin can hardly hold himself up like this even with both hands firmly planted in the mattress, not while supporting all of his own weight and half of Jon’s. And Jon can’t resist gravity for long either, clinging slothlike to Martin’s body. After a few moments, then, Martin hums his discomfort into Jon’s mouth, and he takes the cue to let go, dropping the few inches to the mattress and pushing at Martin’s shoulders with the heels of his palms as he gasps, “Up, sit up for a second.”

Martin obliges, crawling back onto his knees and catching his breath while Jon twists underneath him to rearrange the pillows, then tugs on Martin’s arm with the order, “Lie on your back, just there.”

“Oh, but I liked that arrangement,” Martin whinges, even as he goes perfectly willingly where Jon directs him, lying down on “his” side of the bed with a few awkward shifts to get the pillows comfortable. Jon leans down on his elbow then, pressed close to Martin’s front and side with his right hand pulling at Martin’s waist, while Martin takes either bristly side of his jaw between his palms and leads him in again for a renewed effort, kissing over and over as Jon unsystematically explores every inch of his plush lips.

A few moments later, Jon pulls back suddenly from the endeavour, slipping out from between where Martin has been stroking his thumbs beneath his ears and muttering, “Hold on, one second —” while wriggling away. Martin holds his arms open to let him go, utterly bemused, as Jon scoots across the mattress and onto his feet, still talking in short, unfocused bursts.

“Just one minute — don’t even move, stay there —” Jon babbles as he crosses the short distance to the dresser and yanks open one of the heavy drawers, giving Martin a wonderful view of the slope and pull of his shoulders before he plucks out a t-shirt at random. “Don’t mind me, I promise it’s — nothing you’ve done, I’m just a bit more comfortable —”

He is turning back to the bed before he’s finished pulling the shirt hurriedly, awkwardly over his head, rushing to return, so Martin gets to watch his belly button and the crests of his hips disappear under the soft fabric, which is nice enough to make up for the loss of having his bare chest pressed against him. Then the mattress is dipping and shaking as Jon clambers back into bed, manoeuvring himself between Martin’s legs and crawling up his body until he settles with a huff not quite on top of Martin’s chest, propped up on one elbow.

“One of these days,” he grunts out as he wriggles into a better position, making Martin’s entire body tense up, “I’m going to shave off this bloody beard and we’ll get to do this properly. It just doesn’t feel normal to me, I don’t like it. Now,” he finishes on a bright puff of air, finally settling and pushing back a tuft of Martin’s hair on his brow — “where were we?”

Martin can’t possibly speak to answer that. Adult man lying on his chest aside, he feels like the air has been sucked from his lungs, and all he can do is squeeze his thighs on either side of Jon’s hips, and, showing great restraint, carefully bring his arms up to wrap around his slim waist. Jon doesn’t even kiss him, yet; but his eyes, ringed widely with green, dart across Martin’s face, from the line of his bleached eyebrows, to the messy splash of his freckles, to the swell of his double chin, observing and admiring. Martin swallows.

“Here-ish?”

“Right,” Jon sighs, lowering close enough for Martin to be able to feel his breath, and no closer. “Not so fun when you’re on the other end of the teasing, is it?”

Martin is startled into hissing snort of laughter at that, nose wrinkling and eyes creasing, and he’s sure it can’t be attractive, but Jon is smiling and watching him as if it’s the handsomest thing he’s ever seen. And he spent four years working with Tim Stoker, and (self-reportedly) _didn’t_ develop a crush. Martin feels a little swell of flattery and stretches upwards, neck straining in counterpoint to his hands pulling against Jon’s back, until he can brush the end of his nose against Jon’s, who drops his grin and makes a low, “Oh,” in his throat.

“Come on, then,” Martin breathes, reaching almost as far as he can to brush his lips in half a kiss over Jon’s. “Have mercy on me.”

Jon’s breath rushes out of him at that, along with the words, “Fuck you,” and then he is gulping like a swimmer before a dive, and driving forwards to press their mouths together, hard and grasping. It’s bliss — that’s the only word Martin has for it — bliss. Jon kisses and kisses and kisses him, would be pressing him down into the pillows but that Martin is pushing up with almost as much force, desperate to meet him, and the first taste of his tongue makes Martin all but whimper, and clasp him tighter.

With his freedom of movement, it’s Jon who changes the angle, but he does it agonisingly slowly, making sure that Martin feels very clearly the hard line of his teeth behind his top lip pressed against his own, and the deft touch of his tongue on the side of Martin’s, signalling his direction.

And it’s not Martin’s fault he gets carried away. Well, obviously, it is his fault; but Jon is lying _between his legs,_ and licking heat and wetness into his mouth, and his bum is _right there_ — and yes, they’re moving slowly, but this is still a slow step, and Martin doesn’t mean it as a precursor to anything when Jon makes him moan again, and he reflexively clamps his thighs around Jon’s hips, slides one hand down for a fully clothed handful, and arches his hips up against him. It’s just — Jon is _really attractive._

Except he doesn’t get the chance to retreat from there, to leave the gesture as an indication of his desire without actually demanding its fulfilment. Because as soon as he registers the force of Martin’s movements — that he is for all intents and purposes _grinding up_ on him — Jon shoves himself up onto both hands, breaking the kiss with a messy gasp, eyes dark and wide.

“Sorry, sorry,” Martin pants, withdrawing his wandering hand with a half-hearted laugh and a shake of his head, trying to blink the haze away from his eyes. “Should’ve checked, I know — it’s no big deal, I’m not asking for anything.”

Jon doesn’t speak, just breathes hard and stares down at Martin like he’s never seen him before, and a thread of worry starts to creep in at the edges of Martin’s happiness.

“Sorry,” he says again, more serious this time despite that his chest is still heaving from their efforts, and swallows the taste of Jon’s mouth. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”

“We need to stop,” Jon snaps, and starts pushing himself backwards. Martin immediately opens his arms and legs to release him, baffled and concerned.

“Jon, honestly, it won’t happen ag—”

“No. No, this has to stop,” Jon keeps biting out as he scrambles out of Martin’s embrace and off the bed. “I thought I could do it, but I can’t. I can’t keep lying about it —”

 _“Lying?”_ Martin repeats, sitting up to watch Jon pace the room even as the thread of worry turns into an icy stream of fear down the back of his throat and into his chest. “What do you mean, _lying?”_

But Jon talks over him, pacing back and forth in the small space between bed and doorway and gesturing sharply with his hands, arms held tight to his sides.

“I didn’t _think_ it was lying, it wasn’t an _outright_ lie, but it _feels_ like lying, and I can’t do it anymore, I can’t. I can’t keep pretending that it’s — that I’m —”

 _“Pretending what, Jon?”_ Martin forces out through his tightening throat as he shoves himself to the edge of the mattress. “You’re really scaring me, and I need you to explain what’s going on _right now —”_

Instead of answering, Jon freezes and cuts him off with a noise forced through closed-tight lips, his eyes squeezed shut and his palm raised towards Martin, not looking at him. There is a second of silence, a suspended moment where Jon stands in place and holds his breath, and Martin waits for his reply; then Jon marches out of the room, disappearing into the kitchen.

Martin leaps to his feet and follows, all thoughts of kissing and respite flown from his head, replaced by his worst neuroses, his most panicked instincts. Jon hates him, he always has — he just didn’t want another person’s life on his hands — all of it was an act, he’s been playing him, treating him like the abject thing he is, a creature to be tested and discarded at the end of it — or Martin has hurt him, Martin’s gone to far, he didn’t think about Jon — _selfish, selfish!_ — and now he’s ruined everything, gone and taken too much again, asked too much, been too much, of course he’s messed this up as well — _don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic —_

Martin swallows those thoughts as he rounds the corner to find Jon with his back to him, filling up the kettle.

“Jon, _what_ is going on?” Martin snaps, keeping his distance on the far side of the kitchen, one step down. “I know we agreed to take it slowly, and I overstepped, we won’t do anything until you’re ready, but _please_ —”

“It’s not that!” Jon grits out. “You didn’t do anything wrong, it’s _me_ , I’ve — it’s nothing.”

“It’s _nothing?”_

 _“It’s — nothing,”_ Jon repeats more sternly, and slams the kettle down on the stovetop. “Forget about it.”

“Forge— No I’m not going to _forget!”_ Martin yells wildly, arms flinging wide, legs shaking. “You just said you’re pretending, that you’re lying, what’re you _lying_ about?!”

“It’s _fine,_ Martin.”

“No it clearly isn’t fine!” He knows his voice is going shrill, that the anxious tightness in his throat is about to turn into cruelty, but he’s two breaths away from a panic attack and hardly able to control it. “Because it sounds to me like you’ve been pretending this whole time that you’re in love with me just to — to —”

Jon whips around at that, eyes wide and mouth open.

_“No!”_

“— to keep off the Lonely or something, and pardon me, but that seems like a pretty _short term solution —”_

“That’s not what’s happening!”

“Well then maybe you could _explain it to me, oh Archivist,_ before you go running off and leave me alone like you could’ve been all this time! I’m sorry I’m so bloody _repulsive_ to you, but I didn’t _ask_ you to pretend like we were on our honeymoon —”

“Martin, that is _not what’s happening!”_ Jon shouts, his baritone slicing easily through Martin’s protestations, sharp enough for him to feel it like a knife in his lungs. There is another moment’s pause, where Jon seems to be making sure that Martin’s not going to keep protesting, and of course he’s not, this whole thing is ridiculous, they just need to _talk_. Except then Jon takes a breath and it shudders through him, his eyes welling up, and oh God, if Jon cries, Martin is _definitely_ going to cry…

“I just —” Jon tries, but it peters out into more shaky breathing, properly choked this time. “I just —”

And there it is, Martin can tell. Jon is hurting just as bad as he is. Something has gone terribly wrong, and they _need to talk about it._ He drops his arms to his sides, shoulders slumping, and realises that Jon hasn’t even turned the stove on yet.

“Jon,” he breathes, voice cracking through his constricting throat, trying to regain control. “I need you to tell me what’s going on. Right now.”

Jon gives a mighty sniff, and wipes his nose quickly and messily on his wrist, looking away and swallowing too.

“We agreed to take things slowly,” he says, voice heavy, but firm and forthright. “Until I’m ready.”

Martin nods. “Yeah,” he agrees. “And I’m sorry I’m not always sure where your boundaries a—”

“What if I’m never going to be ready?”

Jon meets Martin’s eye as he says it with a sudden, harsh movement, jaw clenched, mouth twisted, and eyes hard beneath the still-lingering film of tears. Martin takes a second to parse the implications, his face falling into blankness.

 _“Never?”_ he parrots. “What, you mean — I was right, you don’t have feelings for m—”

“Yes I have feelings for you, of course I do!” Jon barks. “Everything I said last Friday was true, all of it’s been true, I _love you,_ I just — may have left something out.”

Martin has been afraid many times in his life, particularly in the last few years. In many ways, those instances are nothing to the sheer, cold horror presently curling up behind his breastbone and making its home there. What secrets has Jon been keeping from him, fooling him, using him all this while? He needs to know what Jon is about to say; he so desperately doesn’t want to hear what Jon is about to say.

When Martin speaks, his voice is barely more than a broken whisper.

“What did you leave out?”

Jon swallows again, but his gaze doesn’t waver. If anything, it gets stronger, as he squares his shoulders and says:

“I’m asexual.”

_Oh._

Martin’s ears are ringing. The world has ground to a halt. The frozen creature of horror uncurls itself, and quietly slinks away from its feeble nest in Martin’s chest.

“That’s _it?”_

He hears the words a split second after they escape his teeth, and immediately has to clap both hands over his mouth to hold in a little scream. Jon’s frown is both baffled and aghast, and Martin scrambles to get a hold of himself, his heart once more kicking into high gear for a totally different reason to a moment before.

“I didn’t mean that! Fuck, no, obviously I don’t mean it like — that’s _huge,_ Jon, thank you for telling me, that explains a lot, obviously it’s super important and a huge part of you and I respect that completely, I promise, but _Jesus Christ,_ Jon —”

“Martin, are you all right?”

He so very doesn’t have time for Jon’s lagging apprehension. He feels a little woozy with relief, and staggers to one side, grasping for the back of a dining chair.

“I thought you were going to tell me you’ve been secretly _married_ this whole time!” he cries, failing to completely squash a hysterical laugh. “I thought you’d been — r-replaced, or possessed, or your mind wiped, Jesus, you said you’d been _lying_ like it was something _horrible!_ _Why_ did you —” He catches Jon’s eye, and realises what’s been going on — that Jon has been holding this in like it _was_ something horrible, like a barrier or a millstone that he clearly thought Martin would shudder to hear — and his heart floods with sorrow.

“Oh, _Jon,”_ he breathes, pushing off the chair and stepping right up to the edge of the kitchen floor, wanting so desperately for Jon to see, and know, and understand that, in the grand scheme of things, it changes nothing. “I wish you’d just told me.”

Jon’s brow is still creased with worry and fear, but he purses his lips in annoyance underneath.

“Well, forgive me for being worried that the thing I’m commonly told is either fake or a defect might get in the way of our relationship,” he snipes.

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Martin says, but he can’t help but smile as he does it, relief still flooding through him. “Really, I am, bad reaction, but — it’s not a problem, Jon. I promise.”

With every word, Jon’s expression is turning outwards, from anxiety to an almost wretched relief.

“You don’t mind?” he says, his voice going thin.

“No,” Martin sighs, “no, of course I don’t mind.”

Jon takes a step towards him, even as he launches his protests.

“B-because sexual incompatibility is a perfectly valid reason for relationship breakdown —”

“Uh-huh.”

Another step.

“— and of course I wouldn’t _blame_ you for wanting your needs to be satisfied —”

“I’m sure.”

Another step; Martin raises an arm to let Jon in.

“— and God knows we’ve got enough issues, and you’ve been lonely for a long time, maliciously lonely, and people tend to think sex is a good way to stop that —”

“I’m sure they do, Jon.”

“— and — and—”

At last, Jon reaches him, and tucks his arms under Martin’s and around his back, pressing his face into the side of Martin’s neck and finally falling silent. Obligingly, and with another swell of sweet, shivery relief, Martin wraps one arm, then the other, around Jon’s neck, all but engulfing him. Jon takes a moment, then twists a little, wriggling his head around so he can speak again.

“I’m sorry I didn’t mention it earlier,” he mumbles, sounding miserable.

“Yeah.” Martin heaves another sigh, rubbing his hands across Jon’s back. “I’m sorry I blew up a bit. God knows, I’d be a hypocrite to judge you for holding off on coming out to someone. It’s hard. I understand. But trust me, Jon — I’d _so_ much rather be with you and never have sex again, than… pretty much any other alternative.”

He intends it to be reassuring, but Jon just groans, and once more hides his face in Martin’s shoulder. Martin frowns.

“Was that… the wrong thing to say?”

Jon is muffled by Martin’s shirt, but still audible when he says: “It’s just… more complicated than that.”

Martin no longer has the energy for another wild emotional swing, which is probably for the best. _We need to clear this up,_ he thinks, and with a hand on the back of Jon’s head, and by drawing himself back just a little, he manages to get Jon out of hiding and meeting his eyes.

“Time for a sit down and a cup of tea?”

Looking as if he fears the idea as much as he needs it, Jon nods.

“I’ll get the mugs.”

“Sure.”

So Jon turns away to glumly pull a pair of plain white mugs from a cupboard, while Martin turns on the stove and fetches the jar of crumbly tea from the pantry.

“So…” he starts, glancing at Jon as they each fill a strainer and add sugar to their mugs. The man is very stiff. “D’you want to start telling me how it’s complicated?”

Jon gives a slow, tight sigh to his mug on the counter.

“Not particularly,” he admits, “but I definitely should.”

Martin winces in sympathy.

“Is there… something I can do to help? Say something to get you started?”

Jon shakes his head, and says nothing.

“Okay.” Martin looks back at the counter and bites his lip. “Okay. Take your time.”

They stand in silence for a minute or two, a foot apart, while the kettle heats up. The break in tension when it starts whistling comes as such a relief that Martin has crossed back to the stove and plucked it off well before it has time to reach its full pitch. He pours for Jon first, then himself, and as he sets the kettle down and turns off the stove, Jon is already fleeing with his mug to the sofa, leaving a thin trail of steam as he goes. Just for contrast, Martin takes his time properly stirring in his sugar, and goes to join Jon on steady, bare feet, trying to exude a calm he doesn’t quite feel. He settles opposite Jon with slow movements, careful not to spill his tea, and they each blow steam away from their faces for a moment, and enjoy their first sips.

Finally, Jon swallows, licks his lips, sets his mug on the coffee table, and clasps his hands together in the hollow of his crossed legs, interlocking his fingers and gripping tightly enough to strain his scars.

“It’s not that it’s — _never,”_ he starts, diving headfirst into the problem, of course, and making Martin almost choke on his tea. Jon glares at him for a second, before his expression switches suddenly back to a serious, nervous focus, and he looks back at his hands.

“Right, I’ll start at the beginning,” Jon says, in quick, clipped tones. “The thing is — no, that won’t work.”

_“Jon.”_

“Yes, sorry, right,” he frowns, briefly squeezing shut his eyes, then reaching again for his tea. He takes a fortifying sip, and winces when it burns his tongue. “The thing is that it’s not necessarily never,” he tries again, almost rushing out the words, “but — but that doesn’t mean it’ll be… _ever._ Does that make sense?”

Martin bites his tongue, and considers it.

“I… think so?”

“That’s a no,” Jon snaps, before a grunt of frustration. “I mean — I mean that I _don’t know,_ all right? I can’t promise anything, I can’t even promise _nothing,_ because I have so little experience that I don’t even know what _I’m_ going to want or be comfortable with, and I don’t — I won’t say that one day we’ll have a perfect, happy sex life, because that will certainly never happen, but if I say a blanket no, that might preclude any possibility of — of _anything,_ and that’s not a truthful picture, either. And I want you to understand what you’re committing to, that it might change, or change back, or be unpredictable, because even _I_ can’t predict it, and you ought to have all the information before making a decision. All right?”

On that last bit, he finally looks up from where he’s been glowering at his ankles, and meets Martin’s eye with the same unwavering gaze as earlier, making his heart melt. Martin considers what he’s said for a long moment, trusting that Jon will know to give him time. It’s no small thing that they’re discussing, and he wants to make sure he understands as fully as possible.

“Okay…” he starts, keeping his voice as soft and unthreatening as possible. If Jon’s parted lips and shaking breath are anything to go by, he succeeds in that, at least. “You don’t want to rule out the possibility of anything. Could you… elaborate on the ‘anything’?”

Jon swallows hard, and holds Martin’s gaze, and finally nods. His glance away is shuttered and darting, flicking from Martin’s eyes, to chin, to shoulder, then away to the far wall, the fireplace, the coffee table, before Jon huffs out a bracing breath.

“Right, well, I don’t like anything involving —” He releases one hand from his mug for just long enough to make a broad, circular gesture over his lap. _“My genitals._ That’s completely off the table.”

“Got it,” Martin nods, allowing the back of his mind to mourn the lost possibilities. He’ll always have his fantasies, at least.

“But I — I mean — i-it took me a while,” Jon starts rambling, “until I was eighteen, really, to realise that! To come to terms with the fact that I wasn’t just a ‘late bloomer’, I wasn’t ‘too intellectual’ for all that. And then I had that — that girlfriend I told you about, but not really, it was… complicated, but that’s when I looked it up and found out about asexuality, and realised that was _me,_ and decided I wanted none of it.

“But then with Georgie… Well, I was more mature, and we were together for a lot longer, and she had — well, _needs_ — and we tried a couple of things that — that definitely didn’t work, b-but there were some other workarounds, that… I mean, there were a couple of — _acts_ — that I didn’t hate, entirely, or all the time. Mostly the best compromise we found was that she would, well — _take care of herself,_ so to speak, and I would just… be there, some of the time. And sometimes I wouldn’t do anything, or sometimes I would be just — j-just touching her, or kissing her — and sometimes I would… _lend a hand._ So to speak. An-and it was okay. I didn’t mind that. I even sort of enjoyed it, sometimes.”

Martin is trying very hard not to think about the details of that, lest he get either very horny, or very jealous. He looks away, and gives a gradual nod.

“O-kay,” he says. “I mean, I understand what you’re telling me about the past. But are you saying that’s…”

Jon gives another frustrated sound, closing his eyes and curling over to hide his face.

“I’m saying, I have no idea if that will be the case with you!” he groans. “I don’t know what I’m doing, or what to expect. And I don’t want to promise you something I can’t eventually give you.”

“I wouldn’t mind, Jon —”

“Yes, but it’s the principle of the thing!” he insists. “You should know what you’re getting into! But even _I_ don’t know what I’m getting into! I-I-I’ve never even been in a relationship with another man before, I don’t know how to do — any of this!”

“Never?” Martin repeats, almost incredulous until he remembers what Jon's told him about his scant history. And he just said that that first, “complicated” instance was a girlfriend…

“No, never,” Jon breathes. “It’s — it’s all new to me. _All_ of it. And that’s so _stupid,_ I mean, I’m twenty-nine, for God’s sake, I should know this by now, I should have done all this by now —”

“Hey! No —” Martin almost reaches for his hand, but holds himself back at the last second, wary of how prone Jon is to jumpiness when he’s this tense. Instead, he just leans towards him across the sofa as he rambles, signalling at least the opposite of disgust or deterrence. “Jon, _no,”_ he tries, a little louder, cutting him off properly this time. “Everyone goes at this at their own pace, your circumstances aren’t your fault — it’s no big deal!” He tries a smile, and Jon seems to fixate on it, his shoulders dropping slightly. “Honestly, I don’t mind. I really don’t.”

Jon holds his gaze for a moment, then raises his tea to hide his face, taking a slightly less scalding drink. “Thank you,” he says once he’s swallowed.

Martin bites his lip, wanting so badly to abandon both mugs and draw Jon into his arms in comfort, but knowing full well that they need to see this awkward conversation through to its end.

“D’you… want to tell me about it?” he offers. “Why you’ve only dated women, I mean.”

Jon sighs wearily at that, and gives a big, perplexed shrug.

“I mean, the sample size is hardly a lot to work with,” he answers in a resigned mumble. “But mostly I just didn’t realise. I thought — I mean, we all think we’re — _‘normal’,_ you know?” He adds the air quotes, even though they’re perfectly audible in his voice. “For at least a little while. I think my situation was so confusing that I just… didn’t realise how different I was for longer than usual. And then when I — when I learnt about asexuality, I thought: that must be the answer. I have feelings for people occasionally, I’ll date. But I’ve always been very — well — _straight passing,_ as they say. So I just thought that I was.”

The muttering has faded now into a low, reflective rhythm, as if Jon is almost talking to himself, an even further cry from his earlier, snapping self-protection. Martin sips his tea and stays quiet, letting Jon speak and eagerly drinking in every word of lowering defences.

“I couldn’t tell you what changed if I tried,” Jon continues, almost dreamily, speaking to the sofa cushions. “Can’t say what happened, or when, exactly. But sometime around leaving uni, after things ended with Georgie… men — th-the meaning of men, what they are to me — it just… changed. There was possibility where there wasn’t, before. Or perhaps I started recognising possibility where it had always been, I don’t know. It was very gradual. All I can say is that, at twenty-two, I was straight, and by twenty-six, I was… I think ‘biromantic’ is the term. That feels right.

“B-but that’s the problem, at least with women I have some experience of dating, a-and _relationships,_ but it’s — I know it shouldn’t be different, but it _is_ different with another man.” Jon is almost grimacing, now, with something between confusion and annoyance. “I mean, in many ways it isn’t, and it’s not like it feels unnatural or anything, it’s — it’s—it’s very natural, especially with you — but it means I can’t make even the slightest judgement about sex, because it’s _completely different._ It’s a whole new thing, it’s — it’s — I don’t know how to explain it, but it _is._ And I just — I _don’t — know —_ and it’s so — so _frustrating!_ I just want to be sure of something, of what I want, of what I _will_ want, what I’m comfortable with, but I’ve never done this before, so I don’t _know!_ And how can I commit to anything if I don’t _know?”_

Martin bites his lips together hard over a comment about being suited for the position of Archivist. _Too dark._

“Well, it wouldn’t be that different,” he offers instead, feeling his face start to heat up. “I mean, I — I haven’t had, y’know. I haven’t had _that_ surgery, so it’s not like the, er — _equipment_ would be all that different to what you’ve got experience with.”

Jon meets his eye with a flat look. “That’s not the point.”

“Yeah, but I’m just _saying.”_

“Anyway,” Jon says, with a sudden baffled and baffling frown, “you’ve _met_ Georgie.”

The relevance of this is lost on Martin.

“I mean, _once,”_ he rebuts with. “And I was halfway into the Lonely, I’m not sure I could describe her to you if I tried.”

For a beat, Jon says nothing. Then at last he explains —

“Martin, she’s trans. And to put it indelicately, she _also_ hadn’t had that particular kind of surgery when we were together.” Jon’s eyebrows go up with implication at the end, and Martin nods slowly as comprehension dawns.

“Oh…” he says, very eloquently. “Right.”

“So, in point of fact,” Jon clips out, “your _equipment_ is very new to me indeed. Which adds a whole other aspect of uncertainty to the matter.”

It takes a few seconds of mortified silence for Martin to catch the twitch at the corner of Jon’s mouth, and _how_ he managed to keep such a straight face through that exchange will be forever a mystery to him. Martin breaks with a little snort of laughter, then Jon follows him, sending him off in a flurry of hissing giggles. Holding up his tea, Jon leans forward and carefully drags himself a few inches across the sofa, bringing his grinning face a little closer. Martin leans in too, and though they aren’t quite close enough to touch, they bend towards each other like flowers to sunlight — _blessed Graces grant gifts to the garlanded_ — and it feels like more than enough to sate Martin for a few years, at least.

“God,” Martin finally manages to say as the fit subsides. “Okay. That’s that, I guess.”

“What do you mean, _‘that’s that’?”_ Jon repeats, incredulous. “It’s not that simple!”

“It is though, isn’t it?” Martin shrugs, still grinning. “Look, you are — I mean, I want you _bad,_ Jon, but that’s so far from being the only reason I want to be with you. I don’t need a promise of something, or nothing. I’m happy to keep reassessing, if that’s what you want. And maybe you decide you’d like to try something, anything, and maybe we find a compromise that we both like, or maybe we don’t — I can adapt, I don’t mind. The most important thing for me is to be with you, whatever that looks like. And if it turns out that means some kind of sex for a bit, or nothing, for forever… that’s okay by me.”

Martin’s levity may have been fading, but Jon is abruptly serious again when he responds.

“You can’t promise that.”

Martin closes his eyes and sighs, heart sinking.

“Jon—”

“No, you _can’t,”_ Jon snaps. “Time is long, and people change, and maybe what you’re happy with now will become frustrating in — in a year, or five years, or twenty, or however long — and I wouldn’t hold it against you! It’s natural! But you can’t promise me—”

“Maybe I can’t, but I _am,”_ Martin grits out, trying to quell the curl of his lip and his bubbling anger. “It’s like trust. I’m making a promise that I will keep working to keep that promise. And maybe in ten years —”

He breaks off as the words come out of his mouth. _Ten years._ Such a time is still unfathomable to Martin, who has spent so long barely able to look beyond the next paycheck, the next few weeks, the next job; who has spent almost the last year of his life expecting to die.

Jon is watching him, a little frown appearing between his brows, as Martin sits slack-jawed and silent in incomprehension. Martin closes his mouth, and swallows, and gets back on track.

“If it comes to that,” he finishes, “then that’s what it comes to. And we’ll talk about it again, and we’ll find another compromise. But if in ten years I’m lucky enough to still have you in my life, I’m pretty sure I’d do anything I can to keep you there. Call me optimistic, but I can’t imagine a world where I’d choose a so-called ‘normal’ sex life over a life with you. Are we clear?”

Jon stares at him for a long moment, with the now-familiar halo of green around his beautiful dark eyes, as deep as the earth, as deep as space. He looks a bit like he’s going to cry, and Martin clenches his jaw to try to maintain his stubborn position, and stop himself from following suit.

“All right,” Jon whispers through a new croak in his voice. “I guess that’s clear.”

“Good,” Martin snaps with a nod. “Because I’m not saying you’re not allowed to keep having worries, I mean, we all have insecurities, and you should be able to share them with me, but also if you ever bring up the idea that I might want to leave you because of how much or what kind of sex we are or are not having, honestly — I don’t have a threat, but I’ll be very disapp— sorry, what are you doing?”

For Jon has risen suddenly onto his knees, and is crawling forward one-handed along the couch.

“Kissing you,” is as much as Jon gets out before he is, indeed, kissing the side of Martin’s stunned mouth with hard, closed lips. Martin wants to stay obstinate, but he’s hardly going to turn down the opportunity to kiss his wonderful, perfect, asexual boyfriend, and within moments he’s turning and leaning into it with a hum, drawing the kiss out into another, then another, lowering his mug to a hot patch against his leg —

“Mm— shit — tea, _tea —!”_ he mutters against Jon’s mouth, and they break apart just in time for Jon to realign himself before he spills half his mug over the cushions. The jolt of it is enough to make Martin almost slosh his own drink over the rim, and they both flinch, and swear, and laugh at the almost disaster.

“So, the kissing is still…” Martin asks a little breathlessly, wiping a stray drop of tea from the outside of his mug.

“Very good,” Jon answers, crisp and clear.

“You really don’t mind…?”

“Martin,” he drawls, with a tone of warning. “I can assure you that I actively enjoy the kissing. I do not want you to stop kissing me.”

“You mean, like… ever?” Martin frowns. “Or right now?”

“Both can be true.”

Jon’s voice is so deep and calm, and his happy smile is audible in its stretch and cadence, and he is looking right at Martin, and it’s inevitable that Martin feels his breath go thin and his chest squeeze with the inexpressibility of his affection. One side of his mouth quirks up, and he looks away for just long enough to reach over and abandon his tea on the coffee table, Jon quickly following suit.

“There is one important result of all this that we haven’t mentioned,” Martin says, surprising even himself with how normal he sounds as they shuffle closer to each other, Jon hooking one leg over Martin’s lap. He rests both hands flat on Martin’s chest, and curls his fingers into his t-shirt as if seeking a good handhold, a firm grip.

“What’s that, then?” he murmurs, pulling them to each other and stealing Martin’s breath away with a gentle nuzzling of his nose and cheek.

“You’re going to have to take a walk by yourself sometime soon.”

Jon pauses his teasing ministrations, and frowns.

“I don’t follow.”

Relishing the brief moment of having the upper hand, Martin sends Jon the most fondly condescending look he can muster.

“I _really_ need a wank.”

“Eugh, _Martin!”_ Jon cries, looking mildly disgusted, his shoulders falling, and Martin fails to hold in his laugh.

“What?!” he retorts. “I do!”

“Yes, but —”

“And since you’re not going to join me, I think a little privacy might make it better for both of us —”

“Yes, all right, I am well acquainted with the concept, thank you! But — Martin, _timing!”_

Martin chuckles at Jon’s petty expression, pulling him closer anyway with hands on his leg and waist.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, once they’re close enough again to be able to feel each other’s breath. “I mean, I’m completely serious, I haven’t got off in — I don’t actually want to think about how long it’s been —”

Jon rolls his eyes, but he also latches his fingers over Martin’s shoulders, tugging him closer and tilting his head.

“— but I did also kind of just want to see your face.”

“Well,” Jon breathes against his lips, immediately quelling any other mischievous urges. Martin tightens his grip on Jon, anchoring them both. “I know one way you can make it up to me.”

Martin doesn’t need to be told twice. He dips his mouth to cover Jon’s, and the conversation comes to a gentle, spectacular end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me? Projecting a really specific experience of asexuality like mine onto the Archivist? It's more likely than you think.
> 
> I also cribbed some of Jon's expression of his bisexuality from both Jonny talking about his experience on one of his gaming streams, and Abigal Thorn's "the meaning of men" description from her ['Queer [sparkle emoji]' video essay](https://youtu.be/5Hi6j2UXEZM?t=978).
> 
> Come talk to me at [@cuddlytogas](https://cuddlytogas.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter...

Jon goes for a walk on Thursday morning, by himself. They agree on a twenty minute minimum; he takes forty-six.

For Martin, it’s very satisfying. And when Jon returns to find him in a fresh pair of pants, washing his hands in the bathroom, he only hesitates for a moment before going in to stroke his arm, kiss the back of his shoulder, and ask, “Did you have a nice time?”

As if Martin’s been away for a weekend conference. He laughs, and answers honestly.

“Oh yes. We’ll have to do this again sometime.”

Much as he tries, Jon cannot quite hide his chuckling against Martin’s still-flushed skin. His hair and forehead stick slightly to the lingering hint of sweat and warmth, but he doesn’t seem to mind, just digs his brow into the yield of Martin’s back before retreating to the living room with a carefully-schooled expression.

“I went and paid for our groceries, by the way,” he calls over his shoulder as Martin follows him partway, picking up his clothes from the foot of the bed. “Stopped at the Spar on the way back.”

“Oh, yeah?” Martin wobbles a bit as he steps into his trousers. “I hope Jenny says hi.”

“She does,” Jon drawls. Martin fiddles with his fly, and registers a rustling as of thick paper from the other room. “She also said she got rather an odd package — addressed to ‘Mr and Mr Schwartzwald’, of all things.”

Halfway into a t-shirt, Martin freezes. Something like hope, or possibly terror, thrills out from the centre of his chest, numbing his extremities. Unbidden, his feet take him tottering to the bedroom door as he frantically pulls the shirt over his head and tugs it down.

Next to the dining table, Jon is standing with a thick, heavy-looking manila envelope in hand, so stuffed full it’s almost straining at the seams, with the safehouse address written on the front in Basira’s precise, unintelligible hand. The top of the envelope has been messily ripped open, and a handful of papers bulge at the front where they have been haphazardly stuffed back inside.

Jon’s face, when Martin can stand to look away from the miraculous parcel, is borderline inscrutable, his familiar, casually dour expression brightened by only the wide green glow in his eyes, and a curl to his mouth that is trying to hide its glee.

“Oh my God, _finally!”_ is what bursts out of Martin’s mouth as he rushes to take the parcel from Jon’s hand, relief trampling over his lingering fear. He can’t even be bothered to feel sad about this new proof of Jon’s monsterhood, not when the man himself already looks healthier, his skin less grey and thin, and his knees stronger. “I take it you couldn’t resist having a snack on the way in?”

Jon nods a little ruefully, pressing up against Martin’s side as he pulls a wad of papers and manila folders partly out of the envelope and rifles through them. _Sonny Ndukwe, Rachel Monteverde, Celia Day, Su-Lin Kwan, Leigh Anderson…_

“I won’t lie, it was… almost frightening,” Jon mutters, watching Martin’s hands on the parcel. “I wasn’t _not_ in control of myself — I think — but I felt its influence, that’s for certain.”

Twelve statements in total, by Martin’s count, not including Jon’s entrée on the way in. If they ration them out — he’s not sure how often Jon needs to feed like this — ideally, of course, he’d have at least one a day, probably, maybe — but if need be, they could stretch it out — it’s already been more then two weeks since Peter, and Jon’s state was less than good for it, but even at one statement a week…

Jon draws back slightly as he rummages in the pocket of his coat hanging over one of the chairs. _Martin’s_ coat, he suddenly realises, and wishes he could’ve seen how much it must swamp the smaller man.

“You’ll want to see this, too,” Jon is saying. “Basira left it in with the first statement, I guess she wanted to be sure that we’d find it. Here —”

He comes back with a slightly crumpled piece of notepaper and hands it over at once, exchanging it for the heavy parcel. As Martin smooths it open to read, Jon takes the statements and slides them across the table, out of reach, then wraps himself around Martin’s upper arm, resting his cheek on his shoulder where he too can read the note. Again, Martin is faced with Basira’s cramped handwriting, glad to have had the time to become familiar with its angles and shortened letters, how the g’s, p’s, and k’s have their ends lopped off into sharp little spikes, the tops of d’s, t’s, and l’s barely rising above the rest of the line.

> _Caught the old man fiddling with the first package I was going to send and had to do the whole thing over. He added a least one statement and a bunch of tapes. Obviously they can’t be trusted, but I’ll look over them and try to figure out what he was planning._
> 
> _Here’s this in the meantime. Don’t eat them all at once._
> 
> _B_

Martin clears his throat, pushing down a bubble of anger at their employer, and carefully re-folds the note.

“So, what do you think Elias was trying to do?”

“Whatever it was, it can’t have been good,” Jon says through a curled lip, taking the note and dropping it to the table.

“I notice she didn’t say anything about when we might be able to go back.”

“Mm.”

Even at this odd angle, Martin can hardly miss the tight, solemn expression on Jon’s face, pursing at his mouth and between his brows. He sighs, and turns them both so that he can hold Jon’s hand on one side and tuck his arm over his shoulders on the other. Jon’s free hand immediately snakes around Martin’s waist in return despite the cloud hanging over him.

“She sent them days ago,” Martin says, as a reminder to them both. “And we’ve got the phone in the village, and the mobile. It can’t be too much longer.”

Jon looks up at him very briefly only to hide his face again in Martin’s chest. Martin holds him a little tighter in response.

“There’s a bigger problem,” Jon is muttering. “About me. We can’t ignore it forever.”

“And we won’t,” Martin says with a sigh. “We’re _not._ We’ll figure out a way to deal with it all, somehow. Whatever the consequences.” Jon’s hand tightens into a fist against the small of his back, and Martin’s heart may or may not be breaking. He puts it quickly together again; an easy task with Jon already in his arms. Raising their joined hands, Martin taps his knuckles under Jon’s chin, urging his face up to meet him.

“Right now, though?” he goes on. “I think we’ve deserved the break.”

He doesn’t need to say anything more. Jon’s face softens as if he actually believes him — or is trying so hard to believe him that the effect is the same — and rises up on his toes to kiss Martin before he has a chance to bend and meet him.

That night, Martin manages to cobble together his thoughts and scraps into a whole, actual poem. Jon finds it the next morning before Martin can remember to stop him, flipping idly through the notebook left on the table while the kettle boils and a puzzled frown wrinkles his face. Martin doesn’t figure it out until he turns around with a mug in each hand and a plate of toast on his arm to see what’s distracted Jon now, and his face goes very hot despite the frostiness of the early morning.

“Well?” he asks as he sets a mug down before Jon and sits around the table corner from him, pushing through the waver of nerves in his voice. “What do you think?”

“Um.”

Martin’s heart is sinking before he can stop it.

“I— I don’t think I’m really qualified to judge, but —” Jon clears his throat, and takes a procrastinating sip of the steaming tea. “I mean, the sentiment is clear.”

Martin rolls his eyes, mumbling, “Sentiment. Right,” into his breakfast, until Jon reaches out to wrap his fingers softly around Martin’s wrist, stopping the toast just before his mouth.

“I don’t mean that derogatorily,” Jon says, apologetic. “I, um — I think I know the feeling. It took us a while, but… we got here eventually.” He finishes with a small, almost regretful smile, and sure, he hasn’t mentioned Martin’s artistic or possibly cliché use of repetition, or the juxtaposition, or the contradiction of “lost” as a marker of both disorientation and a definite geographical place; but maybe that’s all Martin can hope for at this hour.

He drops a kiss on the back of Jon’s hand. All he has to do after that is lean slightly towards him for Jon to get the hint and meet him in the middle for what Martin intended to be a peck, but somehow turns into a series of languid meetings of closed lips, the gentlest of sips, only stopped by the extent of their gradual smiles.

It’s so domestic, Martin thinks he might perish on the spot. He goes back to his toast instead, failing to quell his grin.

> _Lost and found, lost and found_
> 
> _we passed by Lost and now we’re found._
> 
> _I once was found by dangerous things: those_
> 
> _who hurt us, tormented us, and more than this, who_
> 
> _tore us from our paths, and made us_
> 
> _lost._
> 
> _Now I am found_
> 
> _in your eyes_
> 
> _in your voice_
> 
> _in your love_
> 
> _in comfort, no longer alone, but_
> 
> _where we were aiming for._
> 
> _Our path may have been winding, and we_
> 
> _strayed from it more than once,_
> 
> _or navigated with false directions —_
> 
> _lying maps —_
> 
> _but though we got lost along the way,_
> 
> _now I am here_
> 
> _with you_
> 
> _and found._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE FINALLY MADE IT, FOLKS!! Honestly, we all know 11 was basically the last important chapter, but I had to tie off a few loose ends... and live up to the "no apocalypse" promise in the tags. :)
> 
> Thanks for coming on the journey, especially (again!) to the whole Big Bang team who are still being so lovely about this monstrous little project. And thank you to all the people who have left such lovely comments! They give me so much joy, and have managed to lift my heart on some really shitty days these last few months, so thank you so much. <3
> 
> Come find me on Tumblr at [@cuddlytogas](https://cuddlytogas.tumblr.com) if you want to chat!


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